


The planets really aligned for this one

by pr_scatterbrain



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Found Family, M/M, veronica mars AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr_scatterbrain/pseuds/pr_scatterbrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Semin’s first season with the Hurricanes begins as inauspiciously as his last season with the Capital’s ended... </p><p>aka the mystery of the Capital contract extension that never was, the hacked twitter account and Eric Staal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The planets really aligned for this one

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very lucky to have had help and support from Sarah and Rae while writing/rewriting/editing this. Sarah listened to me ramble about this idea and helped me iron out the plot, and Rae continues to be the most generous friend, mod and beta in the world. Thank you both so much. *hugs and hearts*
> 
> Warnings: two characters are outed without their consent.

  
 

 

**Act one: Welcome to North Carolina (or The Twitter Hack)**

 

  

Sasha's arrival in North Carolina is a non-event.

(That isn't much of a surprise).

Upon arrival to the PNC arena he is shuttled into a stale smelling conference room just in time to attend a damage control meeting and just late enough to miss social media imploding thanks to Jeff Skinner’s twitter feed. The atmosphere has a frantic edge to it. Everyone is moving and no one is stopping for small talk. Sasha ends up sitting with some of the rookies while they wait. For what, Sasha doesn't know. He isn’t sure anyone else in the Hurricanes organisation knows either. According to what he overhears, Kirk Muller is in an emergency meeting. For a moment, Sasha thinks he spots a glint of golden Staal hair in the hallway, but he could be wrong. No one has any time for anything. 

What happens is probably the last thing the Hurricanes want, but Sasha can’t help listening to the hushed voices of the rookies and similarly baby face players who always seem to congregate in noisy groups. Apparently – going by what Sasha overhears – Jeff tweeted a photograph of PK Subban and Steven Stamkos. A photograph that is scandalous in some way. The specifics are implied, but Sasha has never been particularly good at accepting things like that. The battery on his iPhone is nearly gone, but with his charger and American sim card back at the hotel with the rest of his stuff, Sasha doesn’t have much choice. In one way or another, curiosity has always been a costly thing, but a stupid charge on a phone bill is something he doesn’t mind paying.

The photo – twitpic - is easy to find. Seeing it, Sasha isn’t surprised when the first day of training camp is unofficially postponed. 

'Cancelled,' Sasha corrects. He does not like ambiguity. Never has. And the first day of training camp has most definitely been cancelled.

Jetlagged and feeling it, Sasha sits back in a plastic chair and finds himself struggling to stay awake in the darkened room as the slide show begins. It’s haphazardly put together. Sasha notices a spelling mistake on one slide, and a formatting issue on another. The former is more revealing than the latter. Personally, he’s never been particularly troubled by spelling and grammatical mistakes, especially given his somewhat tenuous grasp on his second language. Sure, they sometimes confuse him, but he doesn’t feel the need to make a big deal about them. However, people in the West do.

At no stage is he provided with a Russian translation. He isn’t sure if he should expect one in the future.

The Caps –

Sasha stops himself.

His experience as a Capital is irrelevant.

  

 

The hotel the Hurricane's put Sasha up in is quiet and nondescript. It’s not been particularly comfortable, but it’s not offensive.  The soft colours and the slightly unnatural lighting are familiar in their own way. He could be anywhere and at any point in the season. Switching on the TV, Sasha lets the noise wash over him as he fishes his wallet out of his pocket and puts his iPhone on the charger.

While he was at practice, the room was cleaned. His gaze can’t help but being draw to the freshly made bed. He knows he shouldn’t give in. At least not yet. He is used to jet lag. As long as he keeps moving he should be fine before the week is over. The hotel gym isn’t ideal for that purpose, but it’s good enough. In retrospect, he probably could have stayed in the PNC arena and made use of the Hurricanes gym. It’s what he used to do with Sanja and the guys back in Washington.

While slowly stretching, his real estate agent calls. She is a practical sort of woman who has worked with more than a few Capital players. Years ago, he bought his home in D.C with her assistance. Now he has listed it with her. There have been a few showings so far. From what she says, there is some interest.

“A family,” she says. “Three kids in grade school.”

He supposes that sounds good. The house was too big for him, but that wasn’t unique among his teammates. There was a stupid kind of pride that he had felt as a teenager showing his parents around his home when they first came to visit him. It had filled him to the edges, and spilled over. It feels strange to feel so distanced from that memory. Now his parents are at home and he is halfway across the country living out of a suitcase.

“They think the bathrooms need work,” she adds.

Sasha snorts, unable to stop himself.

She makes an understanding noise in response. “It’s a tactic to lower the asking price– not an original one.”

She’s right. Maybe it’s one he might end up using if he stays in Raleigh long enough to consider buying rather than renting.

 

  

The following day, Sasha is late to practice. Of course he is late to practice. Zhenya has no timing and he far too much to say about the current state of Sidney Crosby's conditioning. He always calls at the worst time and Sasha always lets him talk and talk. He should know better by now. No call from Zhenya is ever a short one.

It is not a surprise to be left with the worst stall in the locker room; right next to Jeff. 

Around them the locker room is chaotic. The noise is familiar even if the locker room itself isn’t. Training camp is always a mess of people and agendas and chirping that Sasha always is one beat behind on getting. The chips are all in motion. In a few days they’re going to fall. It might not look or sounds like it, but this is the calm before the storm. This is the moment where anything is possible.

This time last year Sasha was across the country exchanging amused glances with Sanja. 

(It's been months since Sanja has answered Sasha's calls).

Jeff doesn’t react when Sasha drops his bags and sits down next to him. Doesn't even flinch. His eyes are red rimmed and his face is drawn. He looks more like a boy than he did as a rookie. On the other side of him, Eric is pulling his jersey over his gear.

A week ago Sasha was in the Nizhny Novgorod locker room pulling on a red and blue jersey instead of a red and white one. The sight of his name and number on his new uniform makes the KHL feel like a rapidly fading memory. Yet the lockout doesn’t feel completely over until the moment he and his new team shuffle onto the ice. There is something easy about gliding onto the smaller rink. Or easy for him. Even as he skates the first few easy strides, it isn’t difficult to differentiate between players who scattered to spend the lockout playing in various leagues across the world and those who stayed with their families or to represent the players in the talks.

The mismatch isn’t ideal, but it’s what every team in the league looks like right now.

Muller seems to know it too. Somehow it isn’t much of a surprise when he ends up partnering Sasha with Eric for most of the drills. When Sasha’s agent, Todd Diamond, had been negotiating with the Canes, they had talked about him skating with Eric and Jiri Tlusty. As appealing as that had sounded, Sasha didn’t quite expect to be immediately partnered with Eric. Taller and blonder than Sasha remembered, Eric moves with the easy confidences of someone sure of himself and his place in the world. It feels too familiar. Sanja wouldn’t find the comparison between he and Eric flattering, but Sasha’s never been much of a flatterer. He is a hockey player though, so he does his best.

Expectations are difficult things. Sasha isn’t quite sure where he lands in Eric’s.

At this point, if Sasha is honest, he isn’t sure who his reputation is meant to be a caricature of. He’s used to its weight by now. One way or another, he’s had to get used to it.

  

 

There are messages on Sasha’s phone from his agent waiting for him when he gets off the ice.

Sasha already knows what they’re going to be about.

 

  

Sasha is not the only new face added to the Hurricanes line-up, but Eric’s attention doesn’t feel split when he pulls Sasha aside and asks him over for a BBQ. The season – at least the NHL one – has only just begun and already, it feels like there is hardly time for anything outside of it. It does not need to be said that Eric’s time is drawn tight with team related engagements. Yet he carries himself like it isn’t.

There are Hurricane’s traditions. Sasha doesn’t yet know many of them, but he’s heard about Eric’s team BBQs. He holds the biggest one before the pre-season begins. Thanks to the lockout, Eric holds it late, a week into the season. He gathers everyone together with promises of steak that might be cooked properly if Cam doesn’t interfere, and a somewhat open bar.

“Bring beer,” Jordan advises, laughing as Eric tries to shut him up. “No wait – bring some of your fancy Russian vodka.”

Sasha eyes the tangle of Staal’s.

“Don’t be a dick,” Eric tells Jordan. “You don’t need to bring anything but yourself, Sasha.”

Jordan whines and mentions something about Geno and his hard liquor choices. Sasha manages not to roll his eyes. Zhenya is many things; a discerning drinker is not one of them. He is however, easily riled and prone to spinning bullshit to impress Canadians. Sasha wouldn’t be surprised if Zhenya spent far too much money and time trying to impress Jordan. It’s something Sasha doesn’t think would be either hard, or worth doing – but Zhenya has always liked people like Jordan who are all loud jokes and bright, easy laughter. Though, on the whole, Sasha likes people like Jordan as well.  

Jordan is easy to read on and off the ice, and not especially complicated. He’s the sort of guy every locker room would welcome and the kind of guy who will probably end up being best man for at least half a dozen of his teammates over the years.  

Eric?

Technically neither of them are strangers to each other. They have friends of friends in common, and have spent years playing and studying game tape of each other. In reality they hardly know each other.

 

 

On the day itself, Sasha turns up late again. This time it’s his own fault, not Zhenya’s. Raleigh doesn’t feel familiar yet and despite preplanning his route, one wrong turn completely throws him off. It’s more upsetting than it should be. However when he arrives, no one seems to notice. The BBQ is in full swing. Kids are racing around Eric’s garden, and Jordan is laughing so loudly that Sasha can hear him from the front door.

The first person to see him is Cam Ward, who hands him a beer and his wife, Cody, who hands him a fruit salad to take out to the deck. Having something in his hands helps in a small way, so does Eric’s bright smile when he catches sight of Sasha.

“You came,” Eric grins, breaking away from the grill where Elias, Jiri Tlusty and Patrick Dwyer are all pretending to cook but are mostly looking at baby pictures on Jiri’s iPhone.

Sasha finds himself smiling back at him. “I did.”

“I hope you got here okay.”

The annoyance Sasha felt when he found himself lost in the suburbs has faded into something second hand. Now it makes Eric laugh when he hears about how Sasha accidentally ended up taking the scenic route around Eric’s leafy green community.

“Jordy still gets lost occasionally,” Eric confides as he takes the bowl from Sasha’s hands and finds a place for it on the over flowing buffet table. “He has no sense of direction. I don’t know how he survived in Pittsburgh without me.”

“Geno,” Sasha answers without missing a beat.

It’s probably warranted. Zhenya only managed to avoid getting lost because he was either with Sergei Gonchar, who always kept one eye on him, or he was with Sidney, who never took ‘short cuts’ on a whim (or at all). Jordy though, is one for short cuts. Sasha finds himself shaking with laughter as Eric tells him the story of Jordy’s first visit to Raleigh in Eric’s rookie year, and how the two of them ended up stranded in the middle of nowhere with an empty fuel tank. ‘Nowhere’ turned out to be three blocks from the Canes arena, something the Canes assistant coach who came to rescue them, didn’t let them forget it.

It’s a story that has clearly been told before, but it’s one that gets laughs all around. With an ease Sasha doesn’t even notice, Eric brings him into a fold of teammates and their families. They raise their beer bottles in welcome and enthusiastically embellish Eric’s tale and add a few of their own. Sasha doubts half of that he is told is anything close to the truth, but there is something so easy about the repour the Canes share with each other and the way they make space for him. He doesn’t have stories to share in exchange, but he finds himself laughing to theirs.

When Eric excuse himself to go welcome another late arrival – this time Jay Harrison and his huge family – his place by Sasha’s side is filled by Jared, who hands Sasha a slightly singed burger. The transition is so seamless Sasha doesn’t even notice.

 

 

Sanja used to collect strays. When they were teenagers, he'd bring home stray cats and scrappy dogs. Once or twice Sasha helped find their missing owners. That was how they first became friends. For all the hype surrounding Sanja, there was a kindness to him. Even now, Sasha remembers how they used to skip out on nightclubs and instead sit outside Dynamo's arena trying to lure cats into their laps. More often than not, they would leave covered in angry red claw marks. 

(Sasha hates how much he misses those days).

 

 

With Eric gone, it’s a little awkward. Mostly though, Sasha thinks, that’s because he is a little awkward. Most of his friends were Sanja’s friends or Zhenya’s friends first for a reason. Sasha isn’t good with people. He isn’t good with English either. Hockey is what he is good at and what he loves. Yet the longer he is at the BBQ, the easier it is to sit with his new teammates.

For a little while he even manages to catch up with Joe Corvo. They never really talked when they were both Caps – not that Joe was a Cap for too long – but now being ex-Caps is something they have in common. It’s something Sasha supposes.

“I heard about what went down,” Joe commiserates, clinking his beer bottle with Sasha’s.

Sasha thinks everybody heard what ‘went down.’ Or at least, what Matt Bradley had to say about it.

“Yeah,” Sasha manages to nod.

“Hockey,” Joe nods, like that says it all.

Maybe it does.

Sasha doesn’t know. Even now, Sasha isn’t sure.

“Onwards and upwards,” Joe nods, and Sasha supposes he would know.

The sunshine soaks into Sasha’s skin, and the second and third servings of lunch slows him down, leaving him content to sit in the garden with the guys. If it wasn’t for the noise of the kids squealing and yelling, what’s left of his jetlag would probably catch up with him. It’s worse when Eric’s dog, a gorgeous Akita called Lady, jumps up to sit with Sasha. Over tired from endless games of fetch and tug of war with the kids (and some of the rookies), she settles against Sasha’s side and rests her head on his knee. There is something so comforting about her warm and solid presence. Jordan catches Sasha mid yawn when he and his wife Heather come around with paper plates of cake. Sasha goes to wave Jordan away, but Jordan isn’t one to take no for an answer.

“I made this,” he tells Sasha. “With my own two hands.”

“Bullshit,” Sasha says, the word slipping from his mouth before he can even think to censor himself.

It makes Jordan snort.

“My fucking on ice productivity provided for this,” Jordan tries on for size.

“Your wife picked it up this morning,” Eric says, sliding into a nearby deck chair.

His golden hair is ruffled and his checks are pink from the sun. It’s a good look – better than the neon snapback and sunburn Jordan is sporting. Sasha can see where this is going and before Jordan can get his next dig in, Sasha asks for bathroom directions. Leaving them to their brotherly banter – or chirping – Sasha stretches the kinks out of his shoulders as he walks back inside the cool of Eric’s home.   

Raleigh is different to any other place Sasha has lived in before.

There are certain players in the league who collect two things; zip codes and jerseys. There are some who do it with style. Sasha appreciates style. While he was a rookie, Jaromir Jagr said Sasha had an eye for it. Back when he said it, the Caps had laughed like it was a joke, but Sasha doesn’t think it was. Jaromir has an eye for it too. They both noticed things most of their teammate’s eyes would slide over. Neither of them was caught off guard by roster shuffles or trades, nor did they miss the way their alternate captain drank too much. Jaromir usually sent Sasha home before his tipsy jokes became anything more.

As a rookie, Sasha stood out.

He was quiet and shy and too embarrassed to even attempt English. Perhaps he would have been mostly ignored if he didn’t have moments on the ice where everything clicked. He didn’t always have them, but it was enough to catch people’s attention – his teammate’s attention. After those games, people would ruffle his hair and buy him drinks and ask him to teach them swear words and push him towards girls.

Sasha never liked how he stood out.

People’s eyes got caught on things that stood out. 

His eye got caught on things that stood out. 

What stands out in Eric’s bathroom are the full sized bottles of shampoo and conditioner. They are open, and used, but not recently. Sasha touches the peeling conditioner label. It’s tacky and little gross under his fingertips. Sasha draws his hand away and finishes washing and drying his hands.  He doesn’t have to look. He reminds himself of this; he doesn’t have to look. He doesn’t have to notice how those bottles are old, but the soap by the sink is new.

Eric has a cleaner. Eric also has house worth of spare bedrooms. The offer hasn’t been made, but Sasha wouldn’t be surprised if it is sooner or later. Sasha might not Elias or one of the bright eyed kids who are having their first taste of the league, but he is yet to move out of the hotel. He is also yet to sell his home in Washington. The thought of real estate agents and property viewings isn’t appealing in the least.

If he’s honest, Sasha is hoping someone from the front office might be able to help.

Eric said they would.

 

 

A piece of cake is waiting for Sasha when he gets back outside.

Eric smiles as he hands it over.

Sasha tries not to feel guilty for snooping.  

 

 

(No more snooping – that’s what Sasha decided in Russia. No more looking where he wasn’t meant to look and asking questions he didn’t need to know the answer to.

He isn’t going to make the same mistake twice.)

 

 

The BBQ ends more or less around the time the kids’ energy levels start to wane. What remains after the family's and the younger guys depart, are some of the older guy and their partners. Some help Eric clean up, others like Cam, watch with a beer in hand. It’s relaxed and although it doesn’t feel familiar, Sasha thinks it could.

He is helping Jodean Harrison collect dirty glasses when he overhears them.

“He didn’t come.”

There is a beat of silence then a scoff.

“Eric, come on.”

There is some quiet murmuring Sasha can’t quite catch, and then –

“He wasn’t fucking hacked,” Cam swears. “He was drunk and fucking stupid.”

“I know,” Eric tells him. His voice sounds so tired.

 

  

Sasha, like most of the league, has no time for someone like Jeff. 

It isn’t a lie. It’s the start of a new season and on a new team; Sasha has to make a good impression. The first few weeks with the Canes are important ones. They will set the tone. Now is the time to prove himself, to impress, to make himself a necessity to the Canes roster and to the Canes organisation. Perhaps even the locker room, if he can. He doesn’t need a distraction, and he knows that is what Jeff is.

However beyond that, unlike the majority of the league, Sasha knows firsthand what it feels like to be a victim of a leaking locker room. 

A teammate - a friend - doesn't do what Jeff did.

Given that, he ignores Jeff like the rest of the Canes do.

Yet despite Sasha’s best efforts at cool indifference, Sasha also knows what it is like to suddenly be invisible to his friends, his team. He remembers how overnight no one wanted to talk to him or sit next to him on the bus. Sanja told him he was being irrational and that everything would go back to normal before he knew it. But then Sanja stopped answering Sasha's phone calls and stopped making space for him on benches and buses and VIP booths when the Caps went out for drinks as a team. 

So one day Sasha gives in and when the Canes break up into pairs to do drills, he skates over to Jeff rather leave him to be the odd one out, partnered with one of the assistant coaches or placed in a pair (and then ignored by the guys in the pair).

Jeff looks so grateful. Sasha can't meet his eyes. It's too much. Instead he taps Jeff's shin guard with his stick and tells him to keep up.

Maybe Sanja isn't the only one to collect strays.

  

 

After practice, Jeff invites Sasha over to watch a KHL game. On the drive to his place, he explains how he got an extension pack over the summer so he could watch hockey even if he couldn't play it. 

"Eric and I watched all of your games," he tells Sasha.

The thought is flattering. There are worse things than being flattered, Sasha thinks. He didn't have much of a plan for the rest of the afternoon, but watching replays of his friends back home is one of the better offers he's received recently.  

Jeff's house is too big. It's a lot like Zhenya's only instead of stacks of video games and dog-eared novels; Jeff has towers of DVD's. He talks a lot while they watch the game, and asks questions. Sasha is out of practice when it comes to talking, but - it's nice.

Eric and Jeff were close. That is painfully clear to Sasha. 

There are signs of Eric everywhere. His favourite beer is in Jeff's fridge and under glossy magazines there are books – one with a bookmark at the halfway point, a red dog leash is hanging by the entrance and in Jeff's entrance there is a jacket with a lining of silk that subtly stands out against the mismatch of other coats, scarves and beanies. Sasha glances away from the evidence. It is too easy to see. The way people share space people and leave it are too familiar. 

 

 

 ("I didn't do it, I swear," Jeff tells Sasha without being prompted. "My twitter was hacked." 

That is everyone's excuse.)

 

 

Sasha and Jeff being drill partners becomes a thing.

People notice. People always notice.

What Sasha didn’t expect is Eric, and how he pulls Sasha aside a few days later to thank him for stepping up.

(Sasha doesn’t want to be thanked).

 

 

Away from the adrenaline of games and the muscle memory that are media events, Eric is a steadying presence. He smiles easily at practice, and doesn’t shy away from any of his duties as team captain. By the end of Sasha’s first week in Raleigh, Eric knows all the new player’s names and nicknames. He also makes sure they have his cell number.

“Anything you need,” Eric tells Sasha. “Let me know.”

He means it. Sasha can hear that in his voice and see it in his eyes.

Sasha hasn’t been a rookie for a long time, but he understands how overwhelmed some of the kids on the team feel when Eric had made the same promise to them. There is something about Eric that is so earnest and heartfelt. There is no mystery in why he was chosen as the face of the Hurricanes franchise, or in why so many of Sasha’s teammates look up to him. The shortened season has heightened the pressure on all of them. It feels a little like a game of catch up, but it’s Eric who sets the pace.

Eric is also the reason Jeff isn’t completely isolated in the Canes locker room.

Through sheer force of will and the esteem people hold for him, Eric has united the locker room. No one has spoken a word. Even when questioned by the media who are desperate for the smallest crumb, all of Sasha’s teammates stick to the statement the Canes released. It’s impressive. It really is.

(It doesn’t help PK or Stamkos though).

 

 

The Penguins play the Canes a month into the shortened season. 

The plan is Zhenya will take Sasha out after the game. According to him, he knows where all the good places are thanks to Jordan. From the short time Sasha has been a Cane, Sasha knows what Jordan considers a 'good place' is actually what Eric thinks is a 'good place.' Neither of them have any taste. Sasha tells Zhenya that, but Zhenya shrugs. After a while it's much of a muchness when it comes to bars and clubs. Sasha thinks he knows how the night is going to go until he goes to the bar to order the next round of drink and overhears Eric telling Jeff to go home. 

"I need to talk to you," Jeff is saying. 

"We've gone over everything before," Eric tells him, placing his hand on his back and leading him towards the exit. 

"Please, Eric." 

It's painful to watch.

Sasha makes himself turn away and focus on waving down the bartender and ordering the next round of drinks. It can be on him, and so can the next one. He says as much when he returns to the table. It makes Zhenya grin and Sidney groan.

“I should beat your team more often.”

Sasha makes a face.

Sidney laughs.

He always does when Zhenya says something somewhat clever and as always, Zhenya is delighted. He’s always been so easy when it comes to Sidney. There is something reliable about the two of them. If Sidney isn’t laughing at something Zhenya said, then Zhenya is laughing at something Sidney said. At this point, they are the only reliable part of Sasha’s life. Although almost everything else has changed, they are the same. So he teases Zhenya and buys Sidney drinks and for a little while the restless parts of Sasha settle in their presence and he feels a little like he used to.  

At the end of the night, Zhenya leans his shoulder against Sasha's as they wait for their cab. Like always he is wearing far too much cologne. Because Zhenya is Zhenya, he is wearing the same one as Sasha. It’s a habit he picked up when he was in the KHL. Sasha never told Sanja about it. He never told anyone about it, if he is honest. Far too many things get made into jokes. This… Sasha doesn’t want this to become one. Zhenya was the first person who ever looked up to Sasha. Sasha isn’t sure how he has avoided fucking that up, but somehow he hasn’t. He doesn’t want to.

Against Zhenya's other side, Sidney is half asleep. His hair is stuck up in weird angles and Sasha is pretty sure Zhenya has slipped his hand under Sidney's navy coat to touch the warm skin of his back. Zhenya is shameless, especially after being away from Sidney for so long thanks to the lockout. 

"What's going on?" 

Sasha shrugs. 

Zhenya snorts. "I don't believe that. You've got your pensive face on."

Internally, Sasha debates with himself about saying anything. He used to talk to Sanja about this sort of stuff. It was a bit of a joke among his countrymen. Sasha the detective. Sasha and his day job. Sasha isn't sure when it stopped being funny, only that it did. Zhenya isn't Sanja though. Zhenya never was and never will be. 

"Jeff Skinner," Sasha finds himself saying. 

Zhenya swears. 

Sasha looks away. There is no one more loyal than Zhenya. No one who knows what loyalty can cost like he does. 

 

 

Curiosity is damning. The Capitals coach, Bruce Boudreau, told Sasha that many seasons ago. He was right in the end. He usually was, in one way or another. Sasha might not give him credit for much, but he can in that respect.

Sasha tries not to look, but that doesn’t stop him from seeing the Canes. Uniforms are good disguises. Sasha spent most of last season wearing his like one. It didn’t make any difference for him then and it doesn’t make any difference now for Jeff. Jeff isn’t the kind of guy who buddies up with someone like Sasha. Jeff is wide smiles and stupid jokes and frayed shorts. He is easy with affection and easy to be around. Guys like him buddy up with guys who shout drink orders above the music at bars and dance to pop music after their team wins. 

This time last year he wouldn’t have noticed Sasha.

This year, he notices the empty seat next to Sasha.

Jeff is a kid who isn’t used to being alone. Jeff is the kid who maybe sees without knowing what he’s seeing when he starts making a habit of sitting down next to Sasha on flights and inviting him over after practice and on their days off.

Maybe it’s stupid. Or maybe it’s naïve, but Sasha likes Jeff.

Jeff isn’t particularly complicated. It takes him time to come out of his shell, but he tells silly jokes and drinks more soft drinks than energy drinks. Sasha isn’t sure of Jeff actually has an interest in the KHL. More than a few teammates Sasha has had over the years saw the KHL as a pale imitation of the NHL. More money than anything else. There is money there, Sasha won’t pretend otherwise. There is also a wealth of talent.

Sasha likes the NHL. He thinks he even likes being a Cane.

However, he doesn’t see the lockout as wasted time.

There are things Jeff doesn’t talk about. For the most part, he asks a lot of questions about Sasha’s old KHL team. They talk players and rink size and conditioning and fitness. Sasha is a faster skater than Jeff. Sasha has always been a fast skater. He feels faster after skating back home. They talk about that too. They talk about the different styles of game psychology and they are both trying. Sasha knows that. He isn’t sure if Jeff does, but that’s ok. Or it is with Sasha.

 

 

(They are both lonely).

 

  

The photograph - the twitpic - is easy to find. 

Jeff's twitter account has been completely purged and later it was deleted, but not before the twitpic went viral. 

It's at the very top of the page when Sasha googles Jeff's name. In the foreground Jeff is doing body shots off a brunette. It isn't exactly an ideal image of one of the most promising up and comers. Yet it isn't the worse. In Sasha's time, he and Sanja used to get up to worse and there are equivalent (unpublished) images to prove it. It's what's in the background of the image that has the hockey - the mainstream - media in a tailspin. It's a bit blurred, but it's clearly PK Subban with his hand down Steven Stamkos' board shorts, and the flash of his tongue in Stamkos ' mouth. It's explicit and intimate and the biggest news story of the season. Of any season.

Jeff captioned the twitpic: #thestruggleisreal #lockoutproblems #lockoutsolutions #bromance #yolo.

It’s a readymade controversy.

  

 

("What happened with you and the Capitals?" Jeff asks at one point. 

That's what Sasha wants to know too). 

  

 

(“You have nothing to worry about,” Sanja had told Sasha. “Stop being stupid over nothing.”

Caps for life. That’s what Sanja promised.)

  

 

A few days after the Penguins leave North Carolina, Zhenya calls. 

"What if I was willing to listen to you about Skinner?" 

Sasha – Sasha takes a breath and then exhales it slowly. "I think he might have been telling the truth. I think someone could have hacked his account." 

Zhenya is silent. 

"Okay." 

"Okay?"

"Okay. Now how are you going to prove it?"

Sasha doesn't know. He just has a hunch. That isn’t much. It isn’t anything, if he is honest, and he doesn’t know how to prove anything. He doesn't know anything really about twitter. He doesn't know about tweets or twitpics or hacking. On the surface all of the signs point to Jeff posting the photo which outed two of the most talented players in the league.

It’s an open and shut case. (Not that it’s a case.)

Sasha should be convinced…

… but he isn’t.

Sasha has only known Jeff for a short time, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of person to do this.

The internet is an archive of all things. Before the Canes got their hands on Jeff’s twitter account, someone took screen shots of every tweet Jeff ever made. He didn't make many. Compared to the friends who had tweeted him, there is an unconscious naivety to Jeff's handful of tweets. They were mostly about movies, training or hockey. There were a couple wishing the Canadian team good luck during World Juniors, and one to his sister on the eve of her first college hockey game. There was no commentary in any of the hashtags he used for them – in fact, most don’t seem to have hashtags. 

All in all, it looks like an account of someone who is unfamiliar with social media and not that interested in embracing it. 

The more Sasha looks at it, the more the infamous - and only twitpic - is out of place.  

 

 

An hour later, Sasha's mobile goes off with a text message. The number displayed on the screen is unfamiliar.  

_G man said u need help_

A few seconds later, a second text message arrives.

_twitter is my grl friday_

Then:

_this is biz btw_

Biz turns out to be Paul Bissonnette currently of the Phoenix Coyotes, formerly of the Pittsburgh Penguins where he was Sidney Crosby’s self-described body guard and Zhenya’s go to guy.  

Now he is Sasha’s go to guy.

According to Zhenya, Biz is also a good guy. According to Biz, he is interested. In what, Sasha can’t quite make out. He calls during the Canes next game. Sasha doesn't get a chance to listen to the message he left until the Canes are on their way to the airport. 

 _'So hey Nancy Drew, it looks like your theory’s coming up aces,'_  Biz says.  _'The kid's story might actually hold water. Give me a call when you get this message.'_

It's late when Sasha is finally alone. He hopes it isn't too late to call Biz. According to his twitter account, five minutes previously Biz was tweeting the NHL asking if he could have a new picture on his trading card. Sasha clicks the link to Biz’s suggested alternative and finds himself looking at a photograph of Sidney Crosby scoring an overtime goal.

Biz picks up on the first ring. 

"Hey kiddo, what do you call this time of night, eh?" 

Sasha doesn't understand. He's used to that though. "I got your message."

Biz hums. "All business then. Alright, I'll cut to the chase. The photos look legit. Not like legit, legit, but like the timestamp is around the same as the time they were posted. They aren’t selfies though. Judging by the angles, I don't think he took them. A kid like him; a kid who doesn't have a facebook account and can't figure out hashtags, probably doesn't have a new phone with the high resolution that twitpic has."

"No," Sasha says. "No, I mean yes.”

“Yes, I’m right?” Biz asks. “Or no, Skinny has an old phone, like an iPhone 3 or 4?”

Sasha feels flustered.

He hates English sometimes.

“Jeff has a new phone.”

This isn’t unique. As far as Sasha knows, Sidney is the only person in the league who hasn’t upgraded to the latest gadget over the offseason. Or gadgets, multiple. Sasha himself falls into the latter camp. Jeff’s iPhone has the perfect shine of something new and well looked after. It looks identical to Sasha. Or almost identical – his has stickers on the back and the screen saver is a picture of the Canes logo.

Like players of his age, or perhaps people in general, Jeff has yet to completely learn how to use it. An instruction manual is a suggestion. When the Canes flew out on their first road trip of the seasons, he had to ask Sasha to show him how to turn it off.

Biz snorts. "Rookies."

It’s been a while since Jeff was a rookie, but Sasha understands the sentiment when it comes to him. "I've got to go." 

"Are your little grey cells tingling?" 

Sasha wrinkles his nose. 

Biz lets out an inpatient huff. "You know who did it, don't you?"

"I have some suspicions," Sasha says, because he does and that is all. 

'No dice,' Biz says.

Sasha can't argue with that. He thanks Biz and promises to call if he needs anything. 

A few seconds after he hangs up, Biz texts him: 

_sharing is caring_

 

  

It isn’t good.

Sasha doesn’t know what he wants to find. Or what he expected Biz to find, but it isn’t good. It probably isn’t anything new either. Jeff’s agent doubtlessly has the same info. Info that the NHL higher ups and the Hurricane’s franchise also must have gotten their hands on.

The facts as they stand are straight forward:

Jeff’s iPhone is new. Specifically, it’s next generation new. The kind of new which requires a fingerprint to unlock it, not a key code. The latter can be broken or guessed. The former? Not so much. That was one of the reasons Sasha bought the same model.

Finding out that the photos aren't old isn’t good either. Old photographs could have done the rounds. Old photographs are taken on older cameras, or older phones, which sometimes change hands. However, photographs taken that night mean the window of opportunity was smaller. Whoever posted the photographs must have done so that night, maybe at the bar while Jeff and his friends were drinking and, well, doing what the photograph in question depicts.

Facts aren’t good or bad though. Facts are facts. Sasha should know that by now.

 

  

In the light of the morning Sasha calls Biz back.

“What if I needed more evidence?” Sasha asks, just for the sake of asking. (That is a lie – but who is counting at this point?)

Biz hums. “Do you need convincing?”

“No.”

Sasha needs to dig deeper.

Wants. He wants to dig deeper.

“Is there a difference?” Biz asks.

“No,” Sasha tells him.

Biz laughs. “Geno is a better liar than you.”

That is a lie. But it’s a lie Sasha doesn’t challenge.

“Can you look at the twitpic again?”

“I can.”

“Will you?”

“I’ve been looking at it since we last spoke,” Biz admits.

Sasha has been looking at it too. He doesn’t have Biz’s skills, but he does have an eye for detail. The shot glass had a logo on it. It was easy to google. He’s already found the bar and left a message for the owner. If he’s lucky, Sasha just might be able to get his hands on the security footage.

“Let me know if you find anything new.”

 

 

Necessity means Jeff’s twitter scandal gets put on the backburner when the Canes go on a road trip. The Canes have played the Lightening once so far in the 2012-13 season. The first game was a battle and it was one that the Lightening won. Decisively. However as bad as that was, it was a home game for the Canes. The game against the Habs is an away game for them, and the moment the puck drops Sasha knows it’s going to be bad.

Going in to the game, they all knew it was going to be a bad one. They knew before they arrived in Montreal. Although Kurt had worked to prepare them for it, mentally and physically, Sasha doesnt think he or any of them knew how bad it was going to be.

It is a slaughter. The Canes only just walk away in one piece. 

Jeff has a target on his back. Every single player in blue and red is out for Jeff’s blood. He is checked into the boards thirty seconds into his first shift. A fight breaks out shortly afterwards. Eric and Sasha are on the bench when it happens. It’s only because of Eric, the entire bench doesn’t spill over and enter the fray. Sasha has to physically hold back Elias.

“You’ll make it worse,” Sasha yells, trying to be heard above the jeering crowd.

“Fuck you,” Elias swears, his mouth twisted and his face pale. “Let me fucking go.”

Sasha doesn’t care. He holds onto Elias until the refs break the fight up and send Jeff and Brendan Gallagher to the penalty box before the game resumes.

 

 

Elias and Jeff used to be friends, Sasha remembers later.

Best friends.

 

 

The Canes flight back to Carolina is delayed. In the waiting lounge, the team breaks up in different groups. Cam pulls out a dog-eared book and huge headphones. Sasha might not always be great at English, but he can read Cam in an instant. Do not disturb is broadcast very loudly. He isn’t the only one. Sensing the mood, it isn’t long before Jeff disappears into the bathrooms with his cell in hand.

Sasha buries his hands in his pockets and gets to his feet. He can’t stay in the lounge either.

Making his way to the airport newsagency, he pretends to look around. It’s been months now, but he remembers how everything shifted after Matt Bradley's infamous radio interview. Every word of it is etched into Sasha’s memory. He doesn’t think he will ever forget how sick he had felt listening to the interview, and the storm of shame and embarrassment and anger it created inside him. In the silence of Sasha’s rage, Sanja had been furious. He had ranted and raved – and he had promised that it didn’t mean anything. He promised that no one who knew Sasha would believe a word that Matt said.

He had promised a lot of things.

The interview Matt did haunts Sasha. It follows him – it probably will always follow him.

Yet to Matt, it was just an interview. A few minutes of his day.

A few minutes and Sasha’s reputation was ruined.

Ruined because he didn’t pull stupid pranks in the locker room.

Ruined because he wasn’t loud and bright and funny like Sanja.

Ruined because he got homesick and didn’t properly hide that from people.

A few minutes and the interview was over and done with for Matt.

A few minutes and then it was over and done for David Steckel too, when he decided Matt’s comments needed someone to second them. He had laughed too and said Matt was “spot on.” Spot on… they were teammates. They were never close, but they were teammates. Sasha lived and breathed alongside them for years. He trusted them. He thought he knew them.

Stupid really. He only knew them on the ice.

It wasn’t something Sasha seriously considered, but he could have stayed in Russia. There were more than a few offers made after the Caps decided to cut their ties with him. Better offers than the Hurricane’s made. However, hockey – NHL hockey – has his heart. It took it a long time ago. Sasha isn’t sure if he will ever get it back. If he does, he doubts it will be in one piece.

Sasha cares.

He’s always cared.

 

 

After the shit-show that was Montreal, the Canes get a two-day reprieve of home game. Then they go on another road trip.

They go to Washington.

Upon arrival, he is greeted by Troy Brouwer. Specifically, by comments he made about Sasha and his wasted potential, how little he cared, how he was overrated, how he didn’t show up when it mattered. Compulsively, Sasha reads and rereads the articles. The comments too. It isn’t anything Sasha hadn’t heard said behind his back before, but to have it said publicly is something else. The weight of the words in print makes them echo inside his head.

“He doesn’t know shit,” Eric says, pulling Sasha aside.

Sasha startles at the sound of his voice but doesn’t resist when Eric takes Sasha’s iPhone from his hands.

“I–” Sasha starts to say, but he doesn’t know where to go from there.

“ _He doesn’t know shit_ ,” Eric repeats slowly, his gaze intense.

Sasha nods and tries to look away. It feels like Eric is seeing too much.

 

  

(Sasha waits for a call. It’s another one that never comes).

  

 

The Hurricanes lose.

0-3

Every time Sasha touches the puck, the entire Verizon Center boos.

 

 

Sasha is nursing a bruised hip when Eric checks in on him.

The game against the Caps is over, but Sasha isn’t sure if that’s the part that matters.

“You okay?”

Sasha nods. “You?”

“Could be better,” Eric admits, but he’s smiling when he says it. His smile softens the truth in his words.

He is too kind.

“How’s the hip, Sasha?” Eric asks, changing subjects.

Sasha shrugs. “Okay.”

That is and isn’t true, but Sasha isn’t sure how to say that in English. All he knows it his hip isn’t anything to worry about. He’ll be stiff in the morning, but that isn’t unusual.

There were a handful of chances during the game where he could have scored. Nothing came of any of them. He didn’t make anything of them. Part way through the game there was a moment where Eric could have gotten a goal off one of Sasha’s assists. It was so close. If it wasn’t for Mike Ribeiro, Sasha thinks Eric could have gotten the puck past Braden Holtby. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells Eric.

The Canes won their last game by two. They should have won this one.

Sasha knows it. Kurt knows it. Everyone does.

The Capitals are currently sitting last place in their division. The Canes should have beaten them.

Eric touches Sasha’s shoulder. “Don’t.”

Sasha’s breathe catches.

Eric smiles a little. “We’ll get them next time,” he tells Sasha simply.

The weight of what is unsaid is almost too much. Sasha knows what Eric’s thinking. It isn’t difficult. But instead of saying anything, Eric asks if Sasha if he’s going back to the hotel with the rest of the team.

Sasha nods.

 

 

Sasha was Alex once.

He was Alexander in Toronto when the Capitals called out his name in the Air Canada Centre and drafted him. Lucky number thirteen. He became Alex backstage when he and Steve Eminger were introduced to each other, both of them in matching oversized Capitals jerseys.

After Sanja came to Washington, the name became his instead. It was and wasn’t their name back home, but that was back home. In the NHL everything was different. Sanja got used to it before Sasha did. Here, in Raleigh, he is Sasha to Kurt, to his teammates, and to Eric.

Sasha doesn’t know what he expected, but he isn’t sure if he expected that.

 

  

There were a lot of promises made in Washington.

After the game, the last promise – the one Sasha made himself; that he was done with solving mysteries – is broken when Sasha gives in. His phone doesn’t ring or buzz with text messages. There are no emails either, only goggle alerts. It must be a slow hockey news night for anyone to be writing about his first game against the Capitals since being traded. Foolishly, he clicks the link to the articles. He regrets it immediately, but he knew he would.

Rattled and unable to settle, Sasha paces around his tiny hotel room.

He hates the room. He hates the hotel. He doesn’t know who he was trying to fool.

Picking up his keycard, he can’t help himself. It’s late and he shouldn’t be going anywhere but he can’t stay in his room so he doesn’t.

Once he’s knocking on a familiar door, he doesn’t know what he’s going to say. To be honest, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a  _fuck_. He knocks on the door and it’s cold and his hip aches and Eric walked him to his room for a reason but Eric isn’t here.

Lights are on inside, and when Jeff answers the door, Sasha’s chest feels tight.

Dressed in soft track pants and an oversized sweater, Jeff opens his mouth to speak, but Sasha can’t wait. (All Sasha has been doing is waiting).

“Tell me about that night,” he says, the words spilling out of him. “Tell me what happened.”

The surprised smile on Jeff’s face disappears, and his expression becomes colourless.

“I need to know,” Sasha tells him, because he does. He has to know.

He isn’t lying to himself anymore. He wants to find out what happened.

He doesn’t think curiosity can hurt him anymore.

Silently, Jeff takes a step back and invites Sasha inside. His room is darkened, with only a bedside lamp on and the soft glow of the television illuminating the room. Jeff is in the middle of a movie. Was in the middle of watching a movie. The bright colours and smiling faces on the flat screen feel familiar. Sasha thinks he’s seen it. When Jeff follows Sasha’s gaze, he blushes.

“My sisters like it,” he tells Sasha.

His voice is small and his face is blotchy and red.

It’s a team joke – Sasha vaguely remembers – how Jeff watches children’s films.

Instantly, Sasha realises that Jeff is embarrassed. That takes the wind out of Sasha. He doesn’t want that. Feeling foolish and ashamed in himself, Sasha takes a seat on Jeff’s bed. The covers are pushed back on one side, and there are some room service plates set aside. Sasha knows already that this is the wrong thing to do. Who is he to ask anything of Jeff? What right does he have? Not to mention the Canes are Sasha’s second chance. And he is fucking it up. He is. If Bruce could see Sasha now he would be rolling his eyes. He might be rolling his eyes anyway – he always did have a sixth sense when it came to Sasha messing up.

“It wasn’t anything,” Jeff starts, but then his stops. They both know that isn’t how it starts.

Taking a breath, Jeff looks away. “I didn’t post that picture. I know people think that’s a cop out, but I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

He looks at Sasha then, his eyes red rimmed and for the first time Sasha doesn’t know what Jeff is going to say.

“We were training together. All of us; PK, Stammer, Hallsy, DZ, Ebs, Gagner, like, all the guys. And I’m crap at bars but when we’re hanging out together we go to bars and stuff. It wasn’t any different. We had the first few drinks together, but then we all splintered. I don’t know where everyone was. I was drinking with Mike and some of his friends from back home. Then I went to the bathroom…”

Jeff tells Sasha a story that isn’t unfamiliar; a night out with the guys. A night out with fellow hockey players and with friends back home to celebrate the end of the lockout and the eve of the new hockey season. Rounds of drinks and pretty girls and guys – not that Jeff took anyone up on their implied offers – and loud music that rattled his bones and made his ears rings. There was a venue change part way through the night. Maybe a second one. Jeff can’t quite remember.

Jeff didn’t know until later.

Hungover and sick, Jeff was woken to the sound of laughter.

It wasn’t just one tweet. It was a few.

And at first it was hilarious.

Sasha could see how.

“Drunk tweeting,” Jeff says. His voice is flustered and embarrassed.

It’s a flippant a description.

The laughing stopped about five minutes after they saw what was in the background of one of the twitpics. Or, more specifically, after other people realised what was in the background of the infamous twitpic. Jeff tried to delete everything, but it was too late. One hockey blog story became every hockey blog headline. Everyone was talking about it within hours.

“Everything happened so quickly,” Jeff tells Sasha.

There is still some disbelief in his voice, like even he can’t quite comprehend his rapidly everything got out of hand.

“PK was getting all these phone calls and Stammer’s agent was yelling at them.”

There is more. More that is unsaid. More that Jeff doesn’t have to say.

In the space of a few hours and a handful of tweets, PK and Stammer’s careers were changed. Their lives were changed.

Sometimes things spiral quickly.

Sometimes slowly.

Sasha knows one as well as Jeff knows the other.   

(They know both).

“What now?” Jeff asks afterwards.

The fight has gone out of Sasha. With strings cut, his mouth tastes bitter from everything he said and demanded. In the wake of everything Jeff has shared, Sasha doesn’t know if he got what he wanted. He doesn’t think so.

Shockingly small and young, Jeff can’t quite meet Sasha’s eyes. Sasha intimately knows where Jeff stands in the Canes locker room. He might be a Cane, but more than a few people would be glad to see the back of him. Sasha also knows, abstractly, where Jeff stands in the NHL as a whole. He isn’t blind. He sees how Jeff is targeted on ice, and how he is ignored off it... if he is lucky, he is ignored. More than once, he hasn’t been.

Sasha should walk away.

No one wants to be associated with Jeff. He has torpedoed his reputation. There is nothing left to salvage.

Sasha – he’s never been good about walking away.

“I believe you,” he tells Jeff.

The words take Jeff aback.

It’s painfully clear that Sasha is the first person to say them to him. Or maybe just the first person to mean them. And Sasha does mean them. He believed Jeff before tonight. He should tell Jeff that. He doesn’t, but he should. 

“Who do you think hacked your twitter?” Sasha asks.

Jeff opens his mouth and then closes it.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually.

And there are worse places to start than that. Sasha says as much to Jeff.

“Sasha–” Jeff starts to say, but Sasha cuts him off.  

“I want to help,” Sasha tells him.  

More than that, Sasha is going to help.

 

 

The following day the Canes leave Washington.

They fly back to Carolina in the morning. In the charter plane, Sasha tries to sleep. His eyes feel gritty and his bruised hip aches when the plane hits a patch of turbulence. The seatbelt cuts into him as the plane shudders and bounces. A few seats in front of him, Sasha can see Eric look up from his magazine to reassure Elias. He hides it well, but he’s not a good flier. Right now his face is pale. Somehow, Eric gets him to laugh at something. Only Eric could– Sasha isn’t sure how, but that’s Eric. As uncomplicated as he is, he is simultaneously the second biggest mystery Sasha’s found lately.

In those articles Sasha had foolishly read last night, there were quotes from Eric. A sports reporter had made a joke (or a dig) about Sasha’s comprehension of English. In Eric’s way, he had turned it around and spoke about how he understood Sasha and Sasha understood him. He said they were on the same page.

Eric is a good captain. Sasha knew that before he came to Raleigh.

Zhenya jokes about Sidney being a good captain. The best captain. It is and isn’t a joke with him.

Sasha used to be good at making people laugh. He was never the most popular guy in any locker room, but he used to feel at home in the Caps locker room. He didn’t expect to find one in the Canes locker room. Kurt and the Canes management may have bought him to the Canes to play with Eric, but although they saw a place for him on Eric’s line, it was Eric who made sure there is a place for Sasha in the Canes. On and off the ice, Eric made sure there was a space for him.

When they land, Sasha turns on his phone as they taxi up to the gates. Waiting for him are a series of text messages from Zhenya. A few are readable. Most are pictures of birds and Duper’s new cat. It’s sleek and black. Apparently Sidney won’t go near it. Sasha files that knowledge away.

While Sasha waits for the go ahead to disembark, he replies to Zhenya. The Penguins are on their way to Raleigh. Unfortunately Zhenya isn't with them. They did have have plans to catch up, but with Zhenya out with a suspected concussion, they were cancelled.

Later, after they play each other and the Canes win, Sasha texts him.

_‘u owe me a drink next time ur here’_

Zhenya calls back immediately.

Sasha doesn’t let him get started, “A drink at a good bar, not that one you took me to last time.”

 Zhenya splutters indignantly. “You have no gratitude.”

Sasha laughs.

“None,” Sasha agrees.

Zhenya makes a very grumpy sound. He might not be a teenager anymore, but Sasha doesn’t know anyone who hates to lose more than Zhenya does.

“A small one,” Zhenya promises. “Very small.”

 

  

Later, when Sasha is getting ready for bed, Zhenya sends three texts in quick succession.

_‘good game’_

Then;

_‘v pretty assists’_

And finally;

_‘don’t tell sid’_

 

  

The Penguins road trip moves on. It doesn’t hit Sasha until after they have left, but the Penguins won’t be back again. Not this season anyway.  

“April,” Eric promises, when Sasha finds himself mentioning that the following day while they are lacing up.

And he’s right. In April the Canes will go to Pittsburgh.

If nothing else, it’s something to look forward to.

  

 

Sometimes the best way to start something, is merely to look. It was something Sasha’s mother had told him as a child when he lost his lucky socks, and something he had learnt himself through experience as a teenager.

The first time Sasha meet Sanja, he was on his hands a knees peering under a car.

“Did you lose your keys?” Sasha asked.

Looking up, Sanja shook his head. It turned out he was looking for a tortoiseshell cat he had spotted earlier that week. According to him, she looked like she was pregnant. To be honest, he didn’t really have a plan for finding her. He mostly just had a can of cat food and an old towel. As such, he happily accepted Sasha’s offer of assistance.

Although Sasha might have come from a dog family he didn’t think it was an accident that stray cats congregated behind the Dynamo Moscow Arena. There was a reason they came. There was always a reason. In this case, it was easily deciphered. Kneeling down, Sasha followed Sanja’s gaze. Instead of spotting a cat, he noticed a few bits of trodden on food. That would certainly attract strays. Given the venue, it wasn’t difficult to believe the arenas concession stand was the source of them. Glancing to the gutter, Sasha noticed some scraps of grease paper. One had half a logo on it, which confirmed that hypothesis.

Standing up, Sasha began moving – a short walk through the players parking lot and around to the loading bay resulted in Sasha’s nose leading him to the rubbish collection area. Overfilled bins were practically an invitation for all kinds of animals to feast of the stale burgers and chips. It was inside one of them, they found the cat which turned out not to be pregnant but a huge tomcat who scratched Sanja’s arms and then disappeared a week after he took it home.

That case was much simpler than now.

Now, looking involves Sasha, Jeff and Biz going through a backlog of social media. They research Jeff’s friend’s posts from that night and their friends of friend’s posts and they then look at who liked them, who commented, who shared them. Additionally, they start to go through his enormous list of followers that Biz managed to resurrect from the black hole which is the internet.

“Screenshots,” he snorts. “It isn’t magic.”

Biz might say that like it’s nothing, but it isn’t. Sasha and Jeff are both reasonably literate when it comes to technology. All people around their age are. It’s impossible not to be. Biz is something else.

To be honest, he does most of the heavy lifting.

He throws a wider net, tracking down key words and finding people who had been at the bar. Between the three of them they put together a timeline. They also begin to create a list of names which reoccur amongst the torrent of content, and discover who among the blur of social media profiles are journalists, bloggers or aspiring to be them. It’s more time consuming that either of them predicted. Keeping track of all the information takes almost as much time. Unlike Biz, who seems to think in emoticons and hashtags, Sasha and Jeff end up covering Jeff’s living room with print outs of Instagram posts, tweets, facebook status and blog write ups.

The scale of it takes Jeff aback. “Will this really help?”

Sasha nods. It might not seem like it now, but everything helps.

Glancing at Jeff, it’s clear to Sasha that he has reached his limit for one day. Putting aside his laptop, Sasha gets up.

“Dinner,” he announces.

Food is a good idea. A great idea, really.

It’s the first time Jeff has really looked at any of this stuff. When the story broke, he had retreated from social media. Facing it now, seeing and reading everything – it’s very intense. More than once he makes an excuse to step away from his laptop screen. Sasha doesn’t blame him. Neither does Biz.

Personally, Sasha also knows that the pace of the season is hitting him – it’s hitting all of them. Some harder than others. Sasha feels almost as if he is playing his second season back to back without an offseason to recharge him. He knows he isn’t alone. He was frightened when he heard Zhenya had been hurt on the ice and had sustained a suspected concussion. The footage of his head bouncing off the boards had made Sasha shudder. ESPN seemed to have it on repeat – every time Sasha turned to the channel it was playing.

The news cycle moves at its own pace. Some stories linger, others don’t.

 

 

Social media becomes the default focus of their inquiry. Mostly this is because they find it much easier to get their hands on tweets and status updates than people that were there on the night in question. Hardly anyone wants to speak to Jeff. Although Jeff leaves messages, it seems like everyone in the NHL is screening his calls.

They do however have some luck with the bar. Between Biz’s charm and Sasha’s doggedness, they manage to convince the owner to post them copies of the security tape.

“He said he’d courier them to me,” Sasha says.

“Hopefully they arrive before the season ends and you’re back in Russia,” Biz complains, refreshing the parcel tracking app on his phone. “God, who uses snail mail?”

Apparently Florida bar owners.

“If there was anything on it, they would have already sold them,” Jeff says.

He could be right, but it doesn’t hurt to look, especially when Jeff doesn’t clearly remember how the night ended.

“I remember Ryan was sick,” he says.

Ryan Nugent-Hopkins denies that when Jeff manages to get a hold of him. Listening on speaker phone, Sasha takes notes.

“Jordan was sick. I was looking after him.”

He sounds embarrassed. Like Jeff, Ryan is the kind of guy who looks like he will still be carded when he’s in his thirties. They have that kind of face. Sasha doesn’t need to know him to know that it’s probably a sore point. Athletes aren’t often original when it comes to jokes, and eternal rookies are an easy target.  

“Did you see anyone with cameras?” Jeff asks.

Ryan snorts. “Skinny, when are there not people wanting photos with us?”

‘Us’ was probably PK and Steven, but Sasha can accept Ryan’s point.

Ryan at least tries to help. When Michael Del Zotto eventually does answer his phone, it’s to personally tell Jeff to fuck off and stop calling. While Sam Gagner might not have even have been there on the night in question for all the help he is.

 “I can’t really remember,” he says when Sasha asks him if saw Jeff with anyone.

He gives variations of that answer to every other question they ask.

Taylor Hall apparently is impatient and prickly when Biz corners him after the Yotes play the Oilers. Later when he skypes Jeff and Sasha, he is all smug grins.

“He wanted to rearrange my face,” Biz boasts. “My Taylor almost had to step in to defend my honour.”

Biz’s Taylor, is Taylor Pyatt. From the appearances he had made over Biz’s shoulder during various skype calls, they have learnt he cooks Biz dinner sometimes and seems to be amused by most of his jokes. Whenever Biz says something particularly clever or sarcastic, Taylor’s bright blue eyes crinkle and he doesn't look nearly as solemn as he does on the ice. On the whole Sasha likes him.

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Did he say anything?”

“Nope,” Biz says, popping the P. “According to him, he wasn’t there when the photos were taken.”

“Did he remember anyone who was?” Jeff asks at the same time as Sasha asks, “Where was he?”  

“Whoa cowboys, one at a time,” Biz says, holding up his hands. “But yeah, to answer your questions; some girls, and outside smoking.”

Jeff’s shoulders slumps.

“Hey now,” Biz tells him, leaning closer to his laptops camera. “Don’t give up hope. I’ll find your body shot brunette. Girls are the best when it comes to Instagram and Twitter. I’m sure I can track her down, whoever she may be.”

“That sounds creepy,” Jeff tells him, wrinkling his nose.

Biz winks. “It’s not stalking if you’re following someone online.”

Sasha makes a face. “I don’t think that is right.”

“It is the way I do it,” Biz smirks.

“I doubt that.”

Biz makes a face. “You were more fun when you were saying crap about Sid being overrated.”

Jeff, the traitor, laughs.

 

  

One by one, they talk to people but for all the accounts they are told, no one admits to being there when the photo was taken. If Sasha were to only go by their recollections, they would have him believe no one was in a twenty-foot radius of Jeff that entire night.

Someone lied though. Either one of them, or Jeff.

Sasha might not be a great judge of character, but Jeff isn’t a liar.

  

 

The pace of the season is unforgiving. Less than a week later, the Habs fly out to play the Canes again. They leave having broken the Canes winning streak. Thankfully, it isn’t as bad as the last time they played each other. For one thing, Jordan and Drayson Bowman both score, and for a short time in the second period, the game is tied.

Kurt still bag skates them the following day, but not for the entire practice.

Sasha’s legs burn when he glides over to the bench to grab his drink bottle. One step ahead of him, Eric is already there. Flushed and with his hair sticking to his temple and the back of his neck, he looks the way Sasha feels. Thanking him, Sasha take the offered drink bottle and gulps down a few mouthfuls of water as slowly as he can.

“How are you doing?” Eric asks.

Sasha manages a laugh. “Better than most.”

Most is Elias, who looks about ready to fall over. Cam is talking to him though, and hopefully won’t let him face plant on the ice. Sasha at least manages to wait until after practice for his legs to give out on him. While the others are shuttling off to the showers, Sasha sits in his stall willing himself to get up. Only getting up involves moving. He would much rather not do that.

Eric laughs when he notices Sasha’s predicament, but not meanly. “Come on Sasha. If you hurry up I'll take you home and make you lunch.”

Lunch that isn’t from the hotel kitchen sounds really good. Good enough to make moving sound doable.

“A big lunch,” Sasha bargains.

Eric grins. “That’s how we do it here in the south.”

Sasha still doesn’t know much about North and South in America. He isn’t sure if Eric knows either, but Sasha doesn’t think it matters. Launching himself up, he gets moving. Momentum drives him forward and in the end he makes good time. Not great time; they are both beaten by pretty much everyone else in the locker room. However, by the time Sasha’s ready to leave, he manages to be running a little ahead of Eric. Patiently watching him lace up his shoes, Sasha takes in the careful way Eric ties double knots, just like he does with his skates. It’s only when he pauses, Sasha catches movement in the corner of his eye.

“See ya Sasha,” Jeff waves, his skin pink from the hot shower.

“Later,” Sasha tells him.

“Bye Eric,” Jeff adds, somewhat awkwardly.

Eric nods.

Glancing back over at Eric, Sasha is surprised to see Eric looking at him.

“You and Skinner have become good friends,” Eric comments, his voice difficult to read.

Sasha shrugs.

Eric looks a little embarrassed. “Sorry. That’s none of my business.”

“No?” Sasha asks.

Eric shakes his head. “Not for a while.”

And – and Sasha knows this.

He’s known that since the start of the season when he was looking at Jeff’s shampoo bottles in Eric’s guest bedroom, and Eric’s dog leash by Jeff’s door.

“Do you really not believe Jeff?” Sasha asks.

“I wanted to,” Eric tells Sasha, his blue eyes serious.

Sasha… Sasha understands that.

Eric shakes his head. “Stupid, huh.”

“Stupid,” Sasha echoes quietly.  

 

  

(“Hey Sasha,” Eric asks while spreading smashed avocado on the bread for Sasha’s sandwich. Although Sasha had thought Eric was joking, Eric insisted on making it for him, as promised.

“Yeah?” Sasha says, half distracted by Lady pressing her nose to the back of his knees and demanding scraps. Scraps Eric is pretending he doesn’t see Sasha giving her.

“Why didn’t you get a contract extension with the Caps?”

Sasha swallows.

“Ask the Caps.”

Ask Sanja.)

  

 

Sasha's been living in radio silence for a long time now.  

He should have stopped waiting a long time ago.

The other shoe has already dropped. The echoes are still ringing in his ears. 

  

 

It becomes obvious after the dust from the game against the Habs has settled that Sasha has made a miscalculation. He’s scoured the internet, spoken to bar tenders and midget teammates. Basically, he has spoken everyone except Steven Stamkos and PK Subban. The task of acquiring their contact details isn’t much of a challenge at this point. The problem, however, is it is highly unlikely they will speak to him.

There are three Russians currently on the Lightings roster, and two on the Habs, plus Alex Galchenyuk. For all Zhenya speaks of a Russian community in the NHL, Sasha isn’t sure how much good those connections will be when called upon. There is an easier way to get the information he needs and he happens to be in NYC playing the Devils while the Canes are there for a game against the Islanders.

Sidney Crosby – enough said.  

They manage to meet up for a late dinner while they are both in the same place at the same time.

“I need your help,” Sasha says, spelling it out.

It is the wrong thing to say.

On ice, he is a thorn in Sasha’s – everyone’s – side. Off the ice, Sidney is almost inscrutable. Zhenya might know Sidney inside out and back to front, but Sasha isn’t nearly that lucky. The mix of years upon years of media training and an ingrained awkwardness makes Sidney well, still a thorn in Sasha’s side when it comes to reading him. The truth is Sidney is more like Sasha than either would probably admit. They are both made up of awkward angles and hands tucked into pockets. Self-contained and awkward, they are a beat off when it comes to people. Sure, Sasha can put together the information and understand people in a way Sidney sometimes can't. However it isn’t always an advantage. A lot of the time it isn’t anything.

Unfairly, Sasha sometimes used to think that Sidney was forgiven for many of the same things which Sasha has been damned for. Yet even if that is true, Sasha can’t blame Sidney for that. Neither of them wrote any of the stories that people read or hear about. To be honest, sometimes Sasha doesn’t recognise either of their press facsimiles. The person Sasha has come to know is kind, loyal and adores Zhenya to a ridiculous degree. As much as Sidney can sometimes skate circles around Sasha (or attempt to), over the years Sidney is someone Sasha has grown to like. He is also someone Sasha trusts. He is also one of the few people Sasha has left to go to for help.

However, as a rule Sidney Crosby doesn’t talk to people if he can help it.

He glances at Sasha when Sasha asks.

“A favour?” he repeats. Or maybe asks. He looks surprised, perhaps even confused.

Either way Sasha’s response is the same; he nods.

“I can get you their numbers –” he starts to say when Sidney is silent.

“I’ll get Colby to help,” Sidney says, shrugging off Sasha’s offer of assistance.

Colby Armstrong, Sasha quickly puts together, is currently a Hab.

“And Stamkos?” Sasha hazards to ask, though it immediately becomes clear that he needn’t have.

Sidney shrugs.

There are people Sasha can talk to. However, people will talk to Sidney.

There is a difference between the two statements. It is a vast one.

Sidney might not talk to people, but people talk to him.

  

 

Sasha is in a taxi back to his hotel when Biz calls.

“Hey Agatha Christie,” Biz says, when Sasha picks up. “How did dinner go with Sidney? Did he make you try some fancy wine?”

“Biz,” Sasha greats easily. He’s not even going to ask how Biz knew he was just with Sidney.

“So I was thinking,” Biz continues, launching into a new conversation without taking a breath. “I spoke with a buddy of mine, and she brought up an idea we haven’t considered.”

Sasha attention focuses – and Biz clearly know that.

“Tweets can be changed after they’re screenshot.”

And oh. Oh.

“You can edit the html, and basically write whatever you like.”

“Could that have happened?” Sasha asks, because they are working with screenshots of Jeff’s tweet, not the original.

Biz sighs. “Not really. Not in our case.”

Sasha exhales.

“There are too many screenshots from too many sources collaborating the authenticity of the tweet,” Biz admits.

Sasha thought as much.

“It would have been cool if I cracked, right?”

“Very cool,” Sasha allows, just this once.

  

 

Later, when Sasha is back at the hotel hanging out and having dinner in Jeff’s room, he stops mid bite of his pasta. Perhaps, they’ve been going about this in the completely wrong way. They’ve been looking at technology instead of people. Biz speaks twitter, but Sasha understands people. Not always perfectly, but he tries.

Jeff said his twitter was hacked. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.

The facts? The fact is a photo was posted purposefully.

Biz can focus on the how, Sasha needs to focus on the why.

Why would someone post a photo like that of Jeff, or of PK and Stamkos? Sasha doesn’t know much about PK or about Stamkos, only that they both have reputations for being good guys and talented hockey players. Guys like them aren’t really the sort to collect enemies, or people willing to sell them out. Guy like them mostly collect loyal friends, who protect them and their image. Sasha could say that for Jeff too. Before the scandal broke, he was known throughout the league as the rookie Eric Staal had taken under his wing. The times the Caps had played the Canes, Sasha overheard a few of his teammates chirp Jeff about his fondness for Disney films and asking him if he still got carded at bars. Nothing particularly hard hitting, but sometimes it got Jeff’s blood racing and resulted in him getting himself a few penalty minutes for his efforts.

What sort of person would want to get Jeff in trouble? Or worse, what sort of person would want to out PK and Stamkos without their consent?

Jeff shrinks into himself with Sasha asks. For the first time in a while he looks ashamed, instead of thoughtful. Sasha feels himself stop, abashed. Sometimes his thought process gets too far ahead of himself.

“You wouldn’t hurt your friends,” Sasha tells Jeff. Reminds him. “Not on purpose.”

For some reason Jeff doesn’t look relived, instead he somehow shrinks smaller. Sasha knows this had taken its toll on Jeff. In one instant, he lost friends, Eric, trust, his reputation, several sponsorship deals, and there are even rumours that the Canes are thinking about trading him.

“Jeff – ” Sasha says, his voice soft. “We’re going to find out who did this.”

Jeff closes his eyes tightly and Sasha realises he’s on the verge of tears.

“What if it was me?” he asks. “I was drunk after all.”

Sasha puts his plate aside. “I know you. You wouldn’t do this.”

Looking up at Sasha, Jeff’s eyes are red. “I haven’t told you something.”

Sasha stills.

“Would you still believe me if I told you the photos were on my phone?”

Sasha exhales. This is new information.

“I didn’t take them or post, I swear,” Jeff says all at once. “They were just there in my photo album.”

“Are they still there?” Sasha asks.

Jeff shakes his head. “I deleted them that morning.”

Unsaid, is how he hadn’t told anyone about this until now.

 “I should have told you,” Jeff says. “I’m sorry.”

Sasha should get up. He should go away and think, but he knows himself well enough to be certain that time wouldn’t change anything. Maybe this should change things, but it doesn’t. Sasha still believes Jeff.

  

 

“Well fuck,” Biz says when Jeff tells him.

“I’m sorry,” Jeff tells him.

Biz looks pained. “You should have told us ages ago, Skinny. We could have been avoided so many red herrings.”

Sasha isn’t sure what Biz means, exactly, but he gets the idea. Biz is right. Wading through masses of social media posts was valuable – it did give them a somewhat accurate timeline of the night. However if the photograph was taken from Jeff’s iPhone, the person who hacked Jeff’s twitter may not have even been there on the night in question. Instead of looking for someone who took the photographs, they should have been looking at Jeff’s cloud.

“Could that have been hacked too?” Jeff asks.

Biz shrugs. “Maybe. Your password was pretty crap. Most of Canadian and some of Americans with bad taste in hockey teams know your jersey number.”

Jeff blushes.

However that is short lived. He goes pale when Biz explains how even that Jeff may have deleted the photograph off his phone, but it and others most probably were uploaded to his cloud. Together, Sasha and Biz help go through it. Jeff’s cloud is a disorganised space, filled with data which ranges from cute picture of his family’s dog, Eric’s dog, Eric (there are lots of photographs of Eric), some saved documents, plus a few dozen vine’s and photographs from various gigs and festivals attended over the summer.

Despite how closely they have combed through Jeff’s social media accounts and despite his clear consent, it feels incredibly personal to look in his cloud. It makes Sasha realise how invasive the twitter hack was.

In total there are seven photographs from that night. The infamous one with PK and Stamkos, but also six others showing Jeff being feed shots, a blurred shot of him with his shirt pulled up to expose abs, and a few other blurred images of him flushed, drunk and surrounded by girls. From even a cursorily examination, the angle the photographs were taken suggests someone other than Jeff took them. Out of all six, Sasha’s eye returns to the photograph where Jeff’s abs are exposed. In it, a tanned hand has pulled up Jeff’s shirt. The freckles and the huge watch are unfamiliar. It isn’t Jeff’s hand. Blowing up that part of the image, Sasha prints out that too and lays it out with the rest of the images. When Jeff sees them all, he doesn’t say anything. He helps Sasha lay the images out and then hides himself behind his laptop screen.

“What now?” Jeff asks.

“I don’t know,” Biz says, looking overwhelmed in the skype feed.

Sasha doesn’t know either. “Maybe Sidney will.”

  

 

Sidney calls in the morning, in the window between Sasha having breakfast before he leaves for practice. It isn’t an accident. Unlike Zhenya, Sidney is very good when it comes to timing. Sasha appreciates it.

“I made some calls,” he tells Sasha, simply stating the facts.

There are no hoops to jump through with Sidney – Sasha can hear that in his tone of voice. Serious and solemn, Sidney tells Sasha that he spoke to PK and Stamkos and they gave him permission to share their side of that night with Sasha. 

“What did you find out?”

“They don’t remember the moment the photograph was taken.”

Sasha’s stomach drops in disappointment.

“Oh,”

“But they do remember what happened that night.”

Sidney tells Sasha about that night, about the drinks and the girls and the dares and how it was the offseason and nothing counts in the offseason. He tells Sasha about how they were playing a drinking game with some locals PK had befriended. PK has an easy way with people that both Sidney and Sasha lack. Charming and charismatic, people are drawn to him. That night he had happily joined in with the fun – it was the extended offseason. Sunburnt and happy to follow his lead, Stamkos followed.

It wasn’t anything.

It was a kiss, and PK did have his hand down Stamkos pants. However it was fun. They did hook up every now and them, but it wasn’t a relationship. Sasha gets the feeling that it would have been easier if it had been one. If nothing else, they would have had someone at their sides as they navigated the barrage of attention they’ve faced over the past few months.

Sidney rightly, challenges Sasha when he says as much. “They still have each other. They are friends.”

And – he’s right.

Sasha is instantly reminded of the fact they only took Sidney’s calls because he is Sidney Crosby. They wouldn’t speak to anyone else. However they didn’t speak to Sidney because of his gold medals or his records. They spoke to him because he is a good person and they trust him.

“They were by the bar,” Sidney says, getting the conversation back on safer and more focused grounds.

“Jeff was by the bar,” Sasha adds.

“Yes, half way down the bar from them,” Sidney agrees. “They weren’t sure who he was with. PK remembered seeing him with Taylor Hall, Ryan Nugent Hopkins, and maybe their siblings for a while, while Stamkos was pretty certain he spotted Jeff with Michael Del Zotto and Jordan Eberle flirting with the bartender.”

Sasha has heard so many stories.

Held up against each other, none of them line up exactly.

“We found some more photographs,” Sasha says, when Sidney finishes.

Sidney swears.

“They’re safe,” Sasha promises, and they are. Biz took them off Jeff’s cloud and put them on two usb sticks.

“Good,” Sidney says, relieved.

“Could you ask PK and Stamkos to look at them?” Sasha asks. Perhaps the six new images will help them remember that night with more clarifty.

Sidney is quiet. “I can try.”

 

 

When he gets off the phone, Sasha isn’t sure what to think.

He almost misses the guest receptionist wishing him good morning. It’s only when they pull out a recently delivered package for him, he’s mind clears a little

The return postcode is from Florida.

 

 

Turning around, Sasha goes back to his room. He has practice, but he can be late. Booting up his laptop, he tears open the package and pulls out the DVD from the bar.

Inserting the disk, he presses play. Footage from the outside of the bar fills the screen. Fast forwarding, Sasha sits back and watches. While he is watching the sped up footage, Sasha can’t help but think about that night and all the versions he’s heard of it.

It’s around three am in the footage, when Sasha spots Jeff spill out of the bar. Leaning forward, Sasha presses play. 

Clearly drunk, Jeff and his friends are boisterous and loud. They enter and leave the frame within seconds as they pile into a taxi and disappear into the night.  

Rewinding the footage, Sasha pauses it and then watches the entirety of the footage again.

He doesn’t know for sure who posted the twitpic, but he now knows who lied.

Pulling out the second disk, Sasha’s heart is in his throat.

In contrast to the footage of the exit, the footage of the bar is a burst of light flashing and bartenders working like clockwork. And there; no man is an island, especially not a pro athlete at a Florida bar in the summer.

 

 

Facts aren’t good or bad; that’s what Sasha always told himself. Maybe that was a lie as well.

 

 

Sasha is ejecting the second disk when Sidney calls back.

“I looked at the photographs,” Sidney says. He’s voice sounds a little stilted and stiff.

“Did they?”

Sidney exhales. “Not yet.”

Not yet… Sasha knows Sidney well enough to know that Sidney doesn’t do meaningless phone calls. In the pit of his stomach, he knows what Sidney is going to say. He thinks Sidney knows that he knows too.

Between Sidney’s exhaled and inhaled breath, Sasha braces himself.

“I recognise the watch,” Sidney says.

 

 

When Sasha gets to the arena, the on ice portion of practice is over. In the gym, Sasha finds Jeff talking to Kurt. The moment he catches sight of Sasha’s face, Jeff knows something has happened.

“What’s going on?” Jeff asks as soon as Kurt heads off to pick up some tapes from the teams goalie coach. “You look weird.”

“We should go somewhere,” he tells Jeff, because they should. They can’t talk here, in the middle of the weight room.

Although Sasha has mostly missed practice, Jeff isn’t in the position to skip what’s left of it. They end up in the park lot.

“Sidney called,” Sasha tells him.

“And?”

“It was one of your friends,” Sasha says, because it could have only been one of them.

Ryan and Jordan lied when they said they were in the bathroom when PK and Stamkos were playing drinking games. They weren’t. Neither was Taylor outside smoking. They were with Jeff. They were with him, by the bar. One took his phone and took the photographs while another pulled up his shirt. A quick google for photographs from the Oiler’s signings reveals that Sidney was right. The watch belonged to Ryan. Sasha can see it now. Goody, goody Jeff. Captains pet Jeff. (Captain’s boyfriend Jeff). They would have found it hilarious to have him being less than perfect.

Jeff’s phone might have a fingerprint lock, but Sasha doesn’t think it was difficult for them to unlock it. Hell, they didn’t even have to unlock it to take photographs of Jeff embarrassing himself. Press the home button, then slide the camera app open. Easy. Apple design at its best. It was simple for them to snap some embarrassing photos.

Putting them on twitter would have been a little more difficult, but with Jeff drunk it would have been easy for them to put the phone under his fingers. From there all that would have stood in their was way Jeff’s twitter password, but knowing Jeff the password was probably the same as his cloud.

Jeff’s voice is hollow. “The app wasn’t password protected.”

Sasha isn’t surprised.

They probably posted it on the taxi ride back to the house they had rented. Sasha can see it now – how they would have been bored on the drive back to the beach house they had rented. It probably would have been funny to go through Jeff’s phone. They probably posted the photo’s then, while giggling over Jeff’s overused pinterest app and mostly unused twitter app. The timestamps match up.

That’s what it was; Jeff’s twitter wasn’t hacked. It was a prank gone wrong.

Jeff goes pale.

“They wouldn’t.”

“You told me how they were laughing when you woke up.”

“They thought it was funny.”

“They thought they were funny.”

“No,” Jeff says.

“Jeff,” Sasha tries, but Jeff shakes his head and backs away.

“No.”

Jeff’s raised voice echoes in the parking lot.

“What’s going on here?” Eric asks, appearing through the exit. “What’s wrong Jeff?”

Jeff can’t answer. He rubs the back of his hands over his eyes, but his shoulders are shaking and they both know it’s the truth. They both know what happened.

“It was Hallsy and Ryan and Ebs,” Jeff manages to get out, his voice breaking a little. “It was them.”

“What was them?” Eric asks, confused.

“They posted the picture on Jeff’s twitter,” Sasha says, but he can’t recognise his voice. It doesn’t sound like his own.

Together, they call them. They call them on speaker phone.

At first his friends deny it, but then they are upset. They never meant to do it. It was just a prank. It’s not like Jeff can prove it was them. It’s not like he can make them come forward and admit it publicly.

Jeff is so quiet for a moment, shocked. “I didn’t ask you to.”

And he didn’t.

Sasha – Sasha doesn’t know what he would do in Jeff’s shoes. It’s painful to watch him, to see his heart breaking. His friends abandoned him. His friends did this to him. More than Jeff naivety not to password protect his apps, his friend’s carelessness did this to Stamkos and PK.

Sasha doesn’t think they did it on purpose. He doesn’t want to think they did it on purpose.

Carelessness or on purpose… neither of those motives matter. Not now. Now when Jeff’s reputation is ruined and PK and Stamkos’s sexualities are the topic of every conversation being had this season (and maybe more seasons to come).

“You will tell Steven and PK,” Sasha says, when no one speaks. Because he thinks they should.

They can’t undo what they did. Maybe no one would believe them if they confessed to posting the photo on Jeff’s twitter. Enough damage has been done to Jeff’s reputation. What they can do, is tell Stamkos and PK the truth.

Sasha –

Sasha can't stand the thought of someone he considers a friend lying to his face.

  

 

After Jeff hangs up Eric takes his phone.

“I’m taking you home,” he tells Jeff.

Jeff nods absently.

“Sasha, could you get Jeff’s street clothes for me?” Eric asks, his voice steady.

Sasha nods. He doesn’t know what to say, but he can do that for Jeff.

  

 

A few hours later, Sasha drops by Eric’s place after practice and his impromptu meeting with Kurt has concluded. When he arrives, Eric shows him in and ushers him to the living room where Jeff has made a nest out of blankets. Jeff’s eyes are red rimmed when he looks up Sasha, but he makes space for Sasha to sit next to him and Lady.

“I don’t know what to do,” he tells Sasha quietly, his voice raw and hollow.

Sasha doesn’t know either. Patting Lady’s thick tan fur, Sasha tries to think of something to say. He didn’t think this far ahead. He doesn’t think any of them did.

“Should I tell people?” Jeff asks.

“Do you want to?”

Jeff shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t want to make it worse for PK and Stevie.”

And – and that’s Jeff. Sasha’s heart does something awful inside his chest, because that’s Jeff. Even now, he is thinking of them.

“You don’t have to make a decision right away,” Sasha tells him.

Eric agrees, nodding as he hands Sasha a cup of tea.

“Have you called Biz?” Jeff asks.

Sasha shakes his head.

“Call him,” Jeff tells Sasha. “He deserves to know too.”

 

 

When Sasha leaves, Eric shows him out.

“I’ll look after him,” Eric promises.

Sasha doesn’t doubt that.

 

 

Sitting in his car, Sasha takes a deep breath and then exhales it. Starting the ignition, the radio comes to life, but he switches it off. Right now it’s all white noise. Checking his mirrors, Sasha makes himself focus as he pulls onto the road and begins his drive back to his hotel. All he wants is to lock himself in his room and sleep. Or maybe go and use the hotel pool in peace.

A two month ago he was in Nizhny Novgorod. It feels surreal to think of how much has happened since then. 

Sasha thinks his day is over. It couldn’t possibly get any longer.

However as he is pulling into the hotel carpark, his phone rings.

He pauses when he sees the caller ID.

Troy Brouwer’s name flashes across the screen.

 

 

**Act two: Mistaken Identity?**

 

  

In NYC, on another road trip with the Canes, Sasha does something stupid.  He knows it’s stupid before he does it. He even knows it’s stupid while he’s doing it, but he still does it.

With three hockey teams within a stone’s throw of each other, NYC is a small city. Tiny even, especially given how hockey players tend to migrate to the same places; ending up in the same restaurants where they order the same dishes, the same hotels, and the same bars. Sasha doesn’t even have to guess. Not when the Caps won their game against the Islanders. It’s a bad idea to go where quite clearly Sasha isn’t wanted, but Sasha’s never been good at letting sleeping dogs lie.

When he arrives, the bar is loud, chaotic, and achingly familiar.

He spots Sanja first.

Like always, Sasha spots Sanja’s wide, easy smile and hears his voice above the music. Like always, like always. The pound of Sasha’s heart fills his ears, and blood rushes to his head.

Troy is a liar.

He was always a liar.

Everyone knows it.

However, Sanja looks surprised to see Sasha.

“I need to talk to you,” Sasha says, because he isn’t good with small talk. He doesn’t have Sanja’s charm or his ease. He doesn’t have Zhenya’s honesty or his bravery either. He doesn’t have anything.

“Why are you here?” Sanja says, getting up and his hands are then on Sasha’s shoulders. His face is close, but his glaze is anywhere but focused on Sasha. “You need to go. You shouldn’t be here.”

“You said I would be here,” Sasha tells him. Reminds him. “You said I didn’t have anything to worry about.”

“Stop,” Sanja tells him. “You’re not making any sense.”

And that’s too much. That’s coming from someone who went MIA on Sasha as soon as Worlds was over and done with. Sasha says as much. Halfway through, the tone of his voice changes and he hates himself for it and the look it puts in Sanja’s eyes when he finally looks at Sasha.

Then Mike Green is there, pulling them apart. His hands are sure and the arm wrapped around Sasha’s back doesn’t leave any room for argument. Sasha doesn’t even think about pushing him away. In his ear, Mike tells him to calm down, to not be stupid, to not be fucking foolish. His voice is so purposefully steady, and how many times had he talked to Sasha like that.

He has Sasha moving and back outside in the blistering cold night before Sasha can blink. Then they are in a cab, and Mike is still holding onto Sasha.

“English, please, Sasha,” Mike says, when Sasha tells him to let go.

Sasha’s had almost a decade of being told that.

He bets no one told Nicky to speak Russian while he was in the KHL playing for Dynamo with Sanja.

He wants to tell Mike that, but he can’t. It makes him feel weak and petty and the worst kind of person.

Nicky is Sasha’s friend. One of his best friends. So is Mike. Or they were this time last year.

“I’m taking you back to your hotel,” Mike tells Sasha definitely, and of course he knows which one the Canes are staying in.

Of fucking course.

“Does anyone know where you are, Sasha?” Mike asks.

Does anyone know where Sasha is? Why would anyone care? It’s not like he needs anyone’s permission to go out. He isn’t a rookie.

Mike takes a breath, but he doesn’t contradict Sasha’s statement. 

“Troy called me,” Sasha tells him, feeling reckless and stupid.

He looks for a reaction and he gets it in the way Mike suddenly focuses on him.

“Why?” Mike asks.

“Why do you think?”

Mike looks away. “I wouldn’t know.”

The world narrows and Sasha looks at Mike, at someone who was one of his closest friends. Even now, even after everything, Sasha knows all his tells and can read all his reactions, but he isn’t sure he knows him at all. Not anymore.

“Troy said Sanja asked Ted to trade me.”

“Troy’s a liar. Everyone knows that.”

 

 

Once a Capital, now a Hurricane, Sasha thinks cynically. 

 

 

(Cap’s red, blue and black.

Nizhny Novgorod’s red, white and blue.

Canes red, white and black.

It’s all in the details.)

 

 

When they arrive at the hotel, Sasha gets out and makes sure to close the taxi door on Mike before he can follow Sasha out. Knowing Sasha’s luck, Mike would probably insist on seeing Sasha safely to his room. It’s only when Sasha gets into the lift, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirrored walls. He almost doesn’t recognise himself. His shirt collar is stretched out, and the zipper on his leather jacket is broken. He can’t stand the look in his eyes. Ducking his head, he makes himself breath inhale and exhale slowly.

He doesn’t regret anything. He should – reality should be hitting him right about now –but he doesn’t.

(Why won’t Sanja fucking talk to him?)

When he gets to his floor, he is startles when Jeff calls out his name the moment the elevator doors open.  

“Where have you been?” Jeff asks.

Sasha opens his mouth to say something sharp. Something he probably will regret, but then he notices the iPad in Jeff’s hands and the expression on his face.

Did someone in the bar sell the story about him and Sanja?

“Fuck,” he swears. “What are they saying about me?”

Jeff blinks, clearly not expecting that.

Sasha’s mind races. If it wasn’t about him, that would mean…

“Did they say something?” Sasha asks. Did Taylor or Ryan or Jordan speak publicly? The last time Sasha heard, they had refused to come forward, but maybe PK and Steven asked them to.

Jeff shakes his head.

“What’s going on?” Sasha asks, confused.

Jeff’s expression is serious. “Marc's in trouble.”

“Bergeron?” Sasha asks, confused.

When Sasha last saw Marc-André Bergeron, he was talking with Cam while they are taking off their pads. They had both been planning to return to the hotel and stay in. Cam had proclaimed to the entire locker room how all he wanted was to get changed into his pyjamas and sleep, while Marc-André Bergeron mentioned something about checking in with his wife. Some of the younger guys had teased them that that was no way to celebrate a win. It had made Cam roll his eyes. As far as Sasha can recall, Marc-André was fine at the arena. Maybe a little disgruntled, but sometimes he was like that when he was on a road trip and away from his family. Jeff though, is shaking his head.

“Marc Staal,” Jeff clarifies.

And oh. That makes sense.

It also makes no sense.

“Is Marc hurt?”

Jeff shakes his head and pulls out his iPad. Opening the safari app, Sasha feels his stomach twist when he sees the headline on the gossip site. It’s a small article, but when he’s read it, Sasha can see why Jeff waited up for him. Apparently someone posted a story on Buzzfeed about him not tipping his waitress. A story would just be a story if not for the photograph of the check with his signature.

“Eric says Marc swears the signature was forged, but there are pictures of him,” Jeff tells Sasha.

Sasha scrolls down and sees them. The quality is crap. It’s clear the waitress took them as the party was leaving. All they show is the imposter’s blondish hair and dark suit. However the short story itself is written in such a way that the instance seems both hilarious and hilariously petty. Especially for someone who, to quote the HBO 24/7 doco ‘is the best tipper in his family.’ It’s probably a loose quote, if that, but the story is the sort that will probably be picked up. It’s the perfect filler piece for slow news nights.

Sasha understands gossip blogs and shows. They aren’t a uniquely American invention. However if he is going to get to the bottom of this, he sees the value of calling in reinforcement before the story has a chance of getting any bigger.

So does Jeff.

“I called Biz,” he tells Sasha. “He’s looking into it.”

Without realising it, Sasha realises that Jeff has lead him from the elevators to Eric’s room. Pulling out a key card, Jeff opens the door and ushers Sasha inside. Pacing around the room, Eric and his brother Jordan are both on the phone. From the tone of Eric’s voice, it sounds like he is talking to Marc’s agent. From Jordan’s expression, it’s clear he is speaking to either their parents, or maybe Marc’s wife.

Sasha head spins a little.

“Can you think of anything else we can do?” Jeff asks.

He might have asked more than once. Sasha isn’t sure. Flustered, he runs a hand through his hair, and tries to get his head together. Scattered and no longer fuelled by adrenalin, Sasha feels next to useless. Jeff’s eyes are beseeching though, and Sasha feels himself trying to think of something else he could suggest or do to help.  

“I’ll call Sid,” he says, because Sidney might know something. Or more specifically, he might know someone who knows something.

Sidney though, doesn’t answer when Sasha calls his mobile or his landline. Given the late hour, it’s not really surprising. Sasha leaves a message anyway. Biz though, does pick up his phone when Sasha calls him to check in to see if he has made any progress.

When he answers, he laughs, “I love you guys like season one of Veronica Mars.”

Sasha rolls his eyes and tries to be patient. “Can you help or not?”

Biz ignores him. “I was so bored. So bored. And then you called to tell me the second Staal is trending.”

He goes on for a bit while tapping away on his keyboard. He rambles about how Taylor wasn’t talking his calls and the baby Coyotes, Oliver and Mikkel, had given him another raincheck… Sasha tunes it out. He tunes back in when Biz sighs.

“Nothing yet, but the night is young. Get Marc’s agent on damage control and I’ll do the legwork.”

  

 

The night may be young, but the incident just makes the cut off for  _Late Night with Jimmy Fallon_  and is part of the opening monologue. Biz sends Sasha the gifs. (He may have made them himself. Sasha wouldn’t be surprised).

It’s hard to criticize Biz for wasting time, because around 2am he turns up trumps.

After going through endless tweets, posts, blogs – everything, he sends Sasha a vimeo clip a fellow dinner took of the fake Marc Staal… and it’s Jared Staal.

Jared Staal who is still out with his friends, and probably unaware of the chaos he has caused.

On Jeff’s iPad, the four of them watch the clip of Jared smiling amongst a group of younger Ranger and Cane players as they sign autographs for keen fans. Given how remarkably similar the Staal’s all are, Sasha can’t blame them for mistaking Jared for Marc, especially given they share the same strawberry blonde hair. NYC isn’t exactly Toronto. The city might love Henrik Lundqvist, but Marc isn’t the King. 

Leaning over Jeff’s shoulder, Jordan swears, half impressed and half pissed off, when Jared buys the entire table dinner with Marc’s credit card.

“Did Marc say he could borrow his visa card?” Jeff asks faintly.

Sasha very much doubts it.

“I didn’t know he had it in him,” Jordan mutters under his breath.

Eric sighs. Picking his mobile up, he calls back Marc’s agent. 

“Email that to him,” Eric tells them. 

 

  

After that discovery, Eric waves Jeff and Sasha out of his room.  

“Go to bed,” he tells him. “Try and get some sleep.”

“Eric,” Jeff tries, but Eric shakes his head.

“I’m not having two of my team’s best players sleeping through our next game.”

Turning, he goes back to his conversation with Marc’s agent. In the background Jordan is trying to get through to Jared. He doesn’t seem to be having much luck, but sooner or later he or one of his friends will pick up. When that happens, it’s probably best that Jeff and Sasha aren’t there. As public as this story is becoming, that phone call should be private.

  

 

When Sasha goes down to the hotel breakfast room the following morning, he doesn’t know what he is expecting to find. Eric doesn’t look surprised to see Sasha when he joints him and Jorden at their table. Cam though, glares at Sasha when he sits down. It’s a first, but Sasha supposes he can understand given the circumstances. Even from before Sasha was a Cane, he knew how protective Cam was of Eric.

“How did everything go?” Sasha asks, unable to help himself.

Eric passes over his phone. Loaded on the screen is a statement. It’s a formal apology. However instead of Jared’s name, Marc’s is signed at the bottom. Sasha doesn’t understand. It’s one thing for selfish kids to shirk out of doing the right thing, but Jared isn’t like them. He’s a good guy. A good person.

“That isn’t fair,” Sasha ends up saying.

“That’s what family does,” Eric says simply.  

Cam scoffs. It’s clear that he agrees with Sasha. However one look from Jorden silences him.

“Marc can take it,” Eric says, pocketing his phone. “Jared’s just cracked the Canes roster. He can’t have this on his record. Not right now.”

Sasha opens and then closes his mouth.

“It was Marc’s idea,” Jordan adds.

Yet Sasha doesn’t think that changes anything.

 

 

When Sasha and the Canes leave NYC, everyone and their dogs are making jokes at Marc’s expense.

It feels too much like people making jokes about Sasha behind his back.

 

 

(The thing is, just because everyone is laughing doesn’t mean the joke is funny. Sometimes it’s fucked up. Sometimes it’s cruel.)

 

 

When they get back to Raleigh, Sasha feels strangely homesick for the first time since he arrived in the States. It’s like everything that has happened is finally starting to catch up to him. Yet he can’t quite pinpoint the place he’s homesick for. Maybe Krasnoyarsk. Maybe Moscow. Maybe Washington. He isn’t sure. It’s a nebulous feeling and it untethers him.

Maybe he’s homesick for a place that doesn’t exist anymore.

Around him, his teammates are spilling off the plane and splintering off in every direction. All of them are going somewhere apart from him. Something deep inside him sinks like a stone at the realisation. He doesn’t understand how he ended up here. He can’t understand what happened.

“Come over and help me bath Lady,” Eric says as they are collecting their bags.

Sasha wants to laugh. God.

Eric smiles a little, like he knows how ridiculously transparent he is.

“Alright,” Sasha finds himself say. There are worse things to do after a road trip.

When he arrives at Eric's home, Jeff has somehow beaten both Sasha, Eric and Jared. Grinning, he lets Sasha in and gives him a beer. It probably isn’t the best idea, but they doubtlessly deserve it after NYC. Settling in the lounge room, they sink into Eric’s couch. Yawning, Jeff toes off his shoes and curls up with Lady. Sasha doesn’t know how many times Jeff has done this. Probably too many to count.

Sasha doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand Jeff.

When he says as much, Jeff bites his lip.

“I want to be here,” he tells Sasha quietly. “I don’t want to hate Eric.”

Sasha doesn’t think Jeff ever hated Eric. Not even a little bit.

However the idea of forgiveness – the hugeness of it – is too big a thought. It’s a relief when Eric arrives home with his brother. Lady scampers off the couch to greet him at the sound of his car pulling into the drive way. Letting out a startled laugh, Jeff only just manages to save his beer from being spilled all over himself and the leather couch. Taking a sip of it, Jeff smiles at Sasha.

“Don’t worry,” he promises. “It’s okay. We’re working through everything.” 

Ducking his head, Sasha looks away.

They are his friends, Sasha realises as Eric sits between them and grabs the TV control. Flicking through the channels, Eric sits back when he finds a KHL game. SKA Saint Petersburg verses Slovan Bratislav. Sasha wrinkles his nose. He already knows he’s going to get too into the game. He isn’t the only one. Maybe Eric and Jeff got into the KHL thanks to lockout induced boredom, but they’ve both pretty into it now. Enough so that they are watching KHL games over NHL ones. 

Inside his chest, Sasha’s heart shakes and trembles. He didn’t expect them to become his friends. They are friendly people, kind people, but he didn’t expect them to become his friends, or for them to count him as one of theirs. Maybe part of him had expected Jeff to forget Sasha now and go back to his real friends – the young guys who laugh and are loud and uncomplicated. He didn’t expect Eric to still have time for him either. Not with Jeff back in his life. Sasha doesn’t fool himself. He isn’t Sanja or Zhenya. He doesn’t have their endless charm or charisma. They are beloved. Sasha… isn’t. Not like they are.

 

 

After a second beer and a glass of wine with dinner, Sasha is done for the night. Accepting Eric’s offer, Sasha crashes in one of Eric’s guest bedrooms. As he’s getting settled Lady pushes open the door and jumps up onto the bed. Her ears perk up when Sasha asks if she was kicked out of the master bedroom. The answer is pretty obvious, as is the fact that Sasha is a soft touch when it comes to dogs, especially ones as pretty as her. Ruffling her thick fur, Sasha smiles a little as she settles against his side.  

He’s about to turn the light off, when his mobile rings. Although it’s still early, Sasha can’t remember feeling this exhausted from a road trip. He’s considering ignoring the call and letting it go to his message back, but then he sees Sidney’s name on the screen.

Yawning, Sasha answers the call. “Hello Sid. I should have called you; we found out what happened with Marc.”

“Yeah,” Sidney says. “I spoke to Hank.”

Sasha isn’t surprised, however that makes him wonder why Sidney is calling.

Sidney is quiet when Sasha asks as much. “Why haven’t you asked me to make some calls on your behalf?”

Sasha – if anyone could find out why the Caps didn’t resign Sasha, it would be Sidney. And Sasha…

“I don’t know,” Sasha says, because he doesn’t know why he hasn’t asked.

He could’ve.

Sasha might not be able to ask Sanja, but he could ask Sidney.

“You can ask,” Sidney tells him. “I would help.”

  

 

(Sasha’s doesn’t ask.

The words won’t come).

 

  

Sasha’s never thought of himself as a coward, but maybe he is afraid.  

 

  

**Act three: The Homme Fatale.**

  

 

Sasha is woken by the sound of his phone ringing. There is only one person it can be.

“I said I needed time,” Sasha says, feeling fraught and too raw to deal with Sidney’s inscrutability.

There is silence for a beat, then a bark of laughter.

“I didn’t expect that,” someone who isn’t Sidney says.

Sasha doesn’t recognise the voice. Bringing his mobile away from his ear, he glances as the glowing screen: unknown number.

“I heard you’re good with stuff like this,” someone says, as if that is an introduction.

Stuff like what? Sasha immediately wants to ask… but maybe that is enough of an introduction.

A few moments later, the voice becomes a face. Or rather a skype connection. Bright hazel eyes, golden skin and the tantalising slant of exposed collar bones. It’s a compelling mix. A beautiful one. Sasha doubts he is the first or will be the last to think so.

And as the voice becomes a face, Sasha gets a name: Tyler Seguin of the Boston Bruins.

There is a narrative and then there is this. This being Tyler saying, “It takes one to know one,” and “I knew you’d understand what it is like.”

Implied trade threats aren’t the same as not being resigned. Sasha isn’t sure if the difference is negligible or not to Tyler.

“I’ve gotten into some hot water,” he tells Sasha.

“I’ve heard.”

“And I’ve heard you’re an expert,” Tyler continues.

An expert what? And according to who?

“What do you want?” Sasha asks, curious to see how Tyler will answer. Or even if he will answer.

“What do you think?”

Sasha thinks he couldn’t have answered that question better himself. Perhaps only Sidney could have. But neither of them are Sidney. They are, however, two people who don’t need to say what they want in order to have the other person know what they mean.

Tyler gives Sasha a list of names.

They are all predictable in a way.

  

 

Tyler Sequin entered the league as a number one draft pick of the Boston Bruins, and number two overall of his draft crop from 2010. His career started with a bang, and he finished his rookie season with his name engraved on the Stanley Cup. During his second season, his stats doubled, but he and his team were knocked out of the playoffs by Sasha and the Caps. Despite that, he was proclaimed the future of the Bruins.

However as Sasha knows, nothing is set in stone.

Although Tyler was the top scorer during the lockout with EHC Biel, he hasn’t been able to come close to that in the NHL this season. With his play now being called average, and with his minutes being slowly reduced, Tyler now finds himself standing on shaky ground. His personal life is being put under the microscope. He can’t go out to have a drink without the story being sold – and the drink with some friends being turned a night of partying. Tyler Seguin stories are becoming big sellers, despite the fact they are utterly unoriginal. Most guys in the league that are his age are out each night doing the same things without any of the scrutiny.

According to Tyler, the same thing happened with his twitter.

While Sasha was by Jeff’s side, helping him try to figure out how he felt and where he stood in the aftermath of everything, he missed social media imploded. Or at least, a tiny part of it, after Tyler late night-tweeted a response to a song his friend wrote. Apparently he liked it but, to quote his tweet, “no homo.” Quickly, he apologised, however his team, the You Can Play organisation and his fans, are currently less than enamoured with him.

For the first time in Tyler’s life, he has found himself in a position where he wants an ace or two to have up his sleeve, just in case he ever were to need them.

Eric isn’t comfortable when he pries that from Sasha. “I don’t think this is a good idea for either of you.”

His voice is steady, not soft.

Sasha doesn’t know why Tyler came to him. He says that.

Eric’s expression shifts a little, but settles back before Sasha can identify what he saw. “I think you know why.”

Sasha ducks his head, looking at what’s left of his breakfast. He doesn’t feel hungry anymore.

Eric doesn’t understand.

There are people who think Tyler’s more trouble than he is worth. There are a lot of those people.  Some are on the Bruins or work for them. Tyler isn’t naïve. He knows there are people who are looking for an excuse to wipe their hands of him. They aren’t just strangers on the street. There are some that he knows, people who sit in the owner’s box and watch him play, and people on the ice with him. Teammates who talk about how he is immature and irresponsible. Coaching staff who keep making small comments about how he is squandering his talent. If someone ever tries to make Tyler into scapegoat, he wants to make them think twice about it. 

 “The Bruins negotiated a six years, $34.5 million contract extension with him in September,” Eric reminds Sasha. “I don’t think someone the Bruins want in their locker room for the foreseeable future has anything to worry about.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Sasha says. “I’m just looking out for him.”

 “It sounds more like he wants blackmail material.”

“It isn’t like that,” Sasha tells him.

He will not let Tyler be alone, even if he is alone in Boston.

Eric gives Sasha a look.

He would though – he isn’t like Sasha or Tyler. Eric doesn’t need an ace up his sleeve. He never has. Eric is a triple gold club member, and is Canada’s golden son (second only to Sidney). Sasha and Tyler? They are the kind of guys who need to be careful. If Sasha had any idea of what the ahead of him this time last season, or even a season before that, he could have been prepared. He wouldn’t have been so naïve. Maybe he might have even managed to change things.

“The best revenge is not looking backwards,” Eric muses, refilling Sasha’s empty glass of orange juice. He could be right.

 

 

(Too many people have left Sasha behind. None of them have looked back once.)

 

 

The events of New York itch under Sasha’s skin. Nothing comes from it. Not even rumours hidden between the lines on minor Caps blogs. Apparently Sanja’s finally managed to plug his leaking locker room. Only a few seasons too late – but who is counting.

For years, Sasha and Sanja lived and worked side by side. They were neighbours in D.C. Sanja used to spend more time in Sasha’s house than his own. There were times where he would be over each night for dinner and each morning for breakfast. They roomed together on the road. They were inseparable. They knew each other inside out and back to front. Or at least, Sanja had known Sasha… he thinks Sanja did.

Sasha can’t recognise Sanja now.

As day pass by and places more distance between him and the opportunity Sasha missed in NYC, he grows increasingly frustrated.

After another of his call ends up going to message bank, Sasha does something reckless and maybe a little cruel. 

He knows he’s crossing the line as he’s doing it, but what’s one more line to blur? So few are left at this point, and it’s only him who hasn’t stepped over them.

Sasha needs to know what happened. He needs to know why Sanja won’t talk to him.

He calls Sanja’s brother, Mikhail.

 

 

Maybe an hour later, Sasha’s phone rings.

Nicky’s name is displayed on the screen.

Sasha doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“You need to stop,” Nicky tells him.

“Nicky,” Sasha says, but Nicky doesn’t let Sasha continue.

“You need to stop all of this,” Nicky says, speaking over Sasha. “All the calls, all the emails, everything. It’s getting around the league. You’re getting a reputation.”

And Sasha laughs – a short bark of incredulous laughter.

It’s not like that is a new experience for him.

“Do you like how you were treated in Washington? Do you want to be back on another team that doesn’t have your back?” Nicky asks. “Because you’re heading that way again.”

Sasha bristles.

“You don’t know anything about my team.”

“Well you don’t know anything about my team either,” Nicky reminds Sasha.

It stings.

And as close as Sasha thought they were, to Nicky they hardly knew each other. That was the quote in one of the many articles. That’s what he said when the journalist asked about Sasha. And Sasha remembers that and he reminds Nicky of that now. Because what the hell does any of this matter to Nicky, if they aren’t friends.

Fuck Nicky.

It didn’t escape Sasha’s notice that he hasn’t respond to any of Sasha’s calls either, and that he avoided Sasha too – even when they were in the KHL during the lockout. Maybe they hadn't been friends at all. Maybe Nicky was just Sanja’s friend and Sanja’s friend only. It would figure.

Nicky swears at Sasha.

“Fuck you too,” Sasha tells him, because fuck Nicky.

Fuck him.

Sasha is going to find out what happened in Washington. He’s going to find out everything.

 

 

(Sasha isn’t sure how Nicky knows what he has been doing).

 

 

Sasha emails Biz the list Tyler gave him.

Biz sends him a text message full of random emoticons.

For a beat, Sasha stares at the eggplants and fireworks and unicorns on his iPhone screen. If it’s meant to convey a message, it’s completely lost on Sasha.

(He regrets goggling ‘translating emoji’s.’)

 

 

It isn’t hard for Sasha to get his hands on gossip. It isn’t hard either for Biz to verify it.

All of it is damning in its own way.

There are always rumours about hockey players. Nicknames and locker room antics. The Bruins might be a team made up of older players who are married with families, but they weren’t always. In Sasha’s hotel room, he makes a file for each name on Tyler’s list. In each, he saves copies of shaky photographs taken on camera phones, records of arrests good Canadian boys managed to have wiped thanks to their canny sports agents, larks from Winter Olympics and various international tournaments, and a few miscellaneous bits and pieces. Some dug up from the deepest depths of the internet. Others acquired from a friend of a friend of a friend who played with certain players during minors or midgets. Sidney might have a direct line to every line to every player in the NHL, but Sasha’s pretty good at indirect lines.

In Phoenix, Biz is busy too. Busy watching the Bruin’s 24/7 series. Or rewatching it, to be specific. Apparently he has a friend of a friend on the crew.

“Well, she was on the crew that filmed the Pens,” Biz admits. “But it’s pretty much the same thing.”

Footage which didn’t make the final cut is emailed to Biz.

Most of it isn’t relevant, but some it.

Biz is pretty delighted by all the dirt he manages to dig up.

“I’m getting pretty good at this,” he tells Sasha.

“You were already good at it,” Sasha says, because Biz was. Though before, he only focused on digging up dirt on himself. Specifically, awful pictures of himself from high school or glorious pictures of Sidney Crosby.

“True,” Biz admits.

Sasha also has come to suspect that Biz runs Sidney’s unofficial twitter account, but he knows better than to ask. Instead he asks about the HBO outtakes that Biz managed to get a hold of.

“I always knew Lucic was a shit,” Biz says, grinning as they watch footage of the Bruin’s star Left Winger heatedly argue over a pre-game soccer game with Andrew Ference.

“Everyone knows that,” Sasha points out.

Biz shrugs. “I suppose. I’ll let you know if I find footage of Ference littering.”

 

 

Like Tyler, Sasha has a list of names.

One by one, he will cross them all off.

 

 

After so many dead ends, Sasha gets lucky when Roman Hamrlik returns his call. Like Sasha, Roman is no longer a Capital. Instead he currently wears the red and blue of the Rangers. After asking after Sasha’s health and complimenting the no-look assist he gave Jiri Tlusty against the Jets, Roman apologises in advice.

“I don’t know if I can be any help,” he tells Sasha.

If he was anyone else, Sasha would probably agree. However Roman is different. He may have only briefly been a Cap but as one of the Czech Republics most respected athletes, Roman knows hockey. He also knows the NHL. Sasha thinks most European players do. (Well, Eastern European players). So many American and Canadian players grow up with blinkers. Unlike them, they both know better. He tells Sasha that although the Caps don’t have him there any longer, there are some that still blame him.

“Some?” Sasha asks.

“Some,” Roman confirms. “Brouwer.”

“That isn’t news.”

“Maybe not,” Roman allows.

“Anyone else?”

Roman sighs. “Everyone talks.”

“Yes,” Sasha agrees.

“I heard Ward, Ribeiro, Laich, Chimera, and Fehr talking. Carlson too.”

And ok. Now Sasha has new names. Mike Ribeiro is mostly crossed off. New to the Caps, he probably is just echoing words he heard other people speaking first. The others? Sasha knows them. Or thought he did. He played one season with Joel Ward, but Brooks Laich? They were rookies together. They played side by side for years. Fehr and Chimera too. Maybe they had never been particularly close, but Sasha had lived and worked beside them for season after season.

“People like to talk,” Roman tells him. His voice is quiet and there is truth to it.

People do like to talk.

Talk isn’t always translated into action.

Sasha knows that. He does.

And he has to ask.

He has to. 

“Alex?”

“He is a good captain,” Roman says, too loyal, even now, to speak against him. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t there for long. I don’t know if I helped.”

“Everything helps,” Sasha tells him, because it is true and also because he thinks Roman will be more likely to understand that than some of the other ex-Caps that Sasha has reached out to with varying levels of success.

“Jaro says that too,” Roman says.

His voice sounds fond.

And Jaromir Jagr does.

As a rookie, Sasha had huge eyes and was careless with them. In the interviewing years he learnt how to hide his eyes, but he’s still careless at heart. Jaromir saw that. There was nothing he didn’t see. He certainly saw Sasha coming long before Sasha recognised like for like in Jaromir. It wasn’t until Sasha was maybe a month into his first season that he caught Sasha’s eye when he was watching everyone during the pre-practice warm up skate.

English was beyond Sasha at that point, but he could communicate in other ways.

As careless as he could be, he could also be so careful and it was with care he learnt all of his teammates. He learnt how they played, how they moved, where they fitted on the ice and on the team. He watched them off the ice too. Off the ice was where Sasha got into trouble. Although living with Sergei Gonchar and his family, Sasha had a habit of straying from his side.

On that day, Jaromir met Sasha’s curious gaze and smirked before shooting one of the hardest slap slots Sasha had ever seen.

“Good eyes,” he told Sasha in Russian.

“You too,” Sasha complimented him.

“I wasn’t looking at the nets,” he replied.

And he wasn’t.

Like quicksilver, Jaromir didn’t need to. The nets didn’t move. People did, and Jaromir knew people. He was the first person who knew Sasha.

“Maybe you should call him,” Roman comments, bringing Sasha back to the present. “He knows more about these things than us.”

That, Sasha wages, is an understatement.

 

 

(Between their three teams schedule of games and road trips, Sasha and Biz manage to organise a skype session with Tyler to update him on their progress. However, in Phoenix, Biz is half distracted by his Tyler yelling at him to get offline and make dinner for him like he promised.

“I don’t come over here for your company,” Taylor Pyatt calls out.

“Whipped,” Tyler Seguin grins.

Biz nods. “It’s the best and yes homo.”

Tyler blushes.

“That was a joke,” he mutters.)

 

 

There is nothing unusual about the day the Canes play the Jets. It’s a home game which means Sasha is greeted by pop music when he walks into the locker room, but not a request for spare tape which Jeff always seems to run out of when the Canes go on the road. At this point Sasha has gotten in the habit of packing an extra roll in his duffle. More than once, the equipment guys have offered him extra, but Jeff says he likes the tape Sasha gets shipped from Europe. Maybe he will give Jeff some for his birthday. Jeff grins when Sasha tells him.

“That sounds really useful,” Jeff says. “Just like the scarf and socks Eric got me last year.”

Eric laughs. “You wore the scarf today.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Jeff grins. “It’s a good scarf.”

“A useful scarf?” Sasha teases, unable to help himself.

There is something so easy about being around them. For all the evidence of each other in their homes, he couldn’t quite imagine how well they fitted together until he saw it. Jeff’s always smiling around Eric. Smiling and laughing. Somehow he is bigger too. His body has unfurled and straightened up. His full height isn’t near Eric’s, but that doesn’t show now. Eric to, is happier. It’s now, after the fact, that Sasha appreciates what that means and what it meant.

 “It’s good, like, it see stuff getting back to normal,” Jordan comments.

And Sasha can’t help but look at him to try and decipher what he means. Usually Sasha skates on Eric’s line, but sometimes Kurt slots Sasha with Jordan. Sometimes Kurt has Jordan onto Eric and Sashs’s line. The three of them are good together. Really good. Sometimes great. On the ice, Sasha can read them. Predict them. Off the ice, Sasha knows Jeff and Eric are a work in progress. He thinks Jordan probably knows that too. Everyone in the league knows how he idolises Eric. After a few months wearing the Canes colours, Sasha understands why. It’s so easy to now that Sasha knows Eric. Sasha knows Jeff too.

 In the spaces between the things everyone knows and notices, Sasha keeps finding himself watching them. Sitting next to them in the Canes locker room, Sasha notices how they share space, share (Sasha’s) tape, and share jokes. Slowly they are finding their way back to each other. They aren’t back on stable ground yet, but it clear that it’s only a matter of time. For some reason, Sasha keeps waiting for something to happen. At odd moments the back of his neck prickles and he has the urge to get out of the way.

Sasha has never been anyone’s boyfriend. To be honest, he’s never really wanted to be one. It’s the kind of thing that no one seems too bothered with during his rookie year. For the most part people spoke to him through Sergei Gonchar. Those conversations happen in loops, and in stops and starts. Sometimes the conversations happened in ways that didn’t need to be translated. When the Caps went out as a group Sasha always received more than his fair share of nudges and looks.

He spent a lot of time crashing and burning in front of pretty girls in his rookie year. Equally, his teammates spent a lot of time laughing and buying him drinks. It didn’t take long for his constant failure to hook up became a locker room joke he pretended he didn’t understand.

What followed were two seasons back in the KHL. By the time he was back in Washington, Sanja (now known as Alexander the (trademarked) Great) was already there waiting for him, and he happily took up enough space for both of them. Sanja – or Alex, as everyone called him – was loud and bright and filled with a glorious kind of confidence. Everyone in the city fell in love with him in one way or another. Sasha had a head start on that back in Russia, but he’s never really see that as something he should apologise for.

In Moscow, the two of them used to get into and out of trouble whenever their paths crossed.

In Washington they were never beyond arm length of each other.  

With people’s attention is focused on Sanja, Sasha was allowed to avoid… most things he didn't want to talk about or do. Mostly he played a lot of card games with Mike while on cross country flights, wore jeans that he paid too much for, had so much fun playing hockey with his friends, and occasionally attempt to teach Alex’s dog, Ghera, tricks. Neither of them was much good at it, but Sasha did manage to teach Ghera how to shake paws. 

For a long time, that was how it was.

 

 

Mid way through the season, Sasha gets a call from someone he never got the chance to play with, only against in the KHL: the Capitals seventh draft pick from the last draft, Sergey Kostenko.

After the draft, Sergey’s number had been passed on to Sasha via Sanja. At the time, that wasn’t anything unusual. Russian’s in the NHL kept in touch with each other. They all liked to look out for new players coming into the league, especially younger ones. After the draft, Sasha had texted him hello and they had bonded easily over their similar experiences in the KHL. Sasha liked him. Sergy was mature for his age; perhaps a little more serious than he should be, but kind and loyal. 

“I’m going home,” he tells Sasha now.

There is something small and defensive in his voice. From memory, after he was drafted by the Caps, they sent him to their ECHL team, the Reading Royals and then to the Ontario Reign. Too many goalie’s and too few spots on the roster had meant he had struggled for ice time as he recovered from his shoulder surgery. To see a talented player leave the NHL before his career there can even begin is upsetting, yet not unfamiliar. Sasha heart breaks for him.

“No,” Sergey says, when Sasha asks if he can help. “No, I want to go back to Novokuznetsk. I want my old spot back.”

Sasha isn’t sure if he can help with that – since he started playing in the NHL, the KHL has expanded. That resulted in a lot of the divisions being changed and altered. However Sergei Bobrovsky got his start there, and he might be able to make sure Sergey is welcomed back and given a proper chance to get back on the ice where he belongs.

“Thank you,” Sergey says, when Sasha tells him that. “I actually called for another reason. I found out something.”

“Something?” Sasha asks.

“I met another Caps draftee,” Sergey tells Sasha; his tone says everything. “Tom Wilson. He was there at the Caps development camp this season.”

Sasha vaguely recognises the name.

“He likes to talk. He said the Caps were shopping you around,” Sergey tells him. “He overheard Bruce Boudreau talking about who they were offered.”

Everything slows down and stops around Sasha. “Oh?”

“He said they could have gotten Jarome Iginla for Sanja's line, and some draft picks who could skate.”

The Flames then, Sasha’s mind provides. The Flames reached out for him.

“Anyone else?”

“Detroit too. He said the Caps should have let you become Pasha’s problem instead of theirs.”

The Red Wings… for a moment Sasha can only imagine what that would have been like. To skate alongside Pavel Datsyuk would have been something out of his childhood dreams. If they wanted him, and another team had made a formalised offer… what happened? 

How did Sasha end up with the Canes?

 

 

The knowledge that the Caps were shopping him around before Sasha became an unrestricted free agent is something Sasha can’t stop thinking about. 

The whole thing feels like a loose thread, and he is going to keep pulling on it, no matter what.

 

 

Pasha is a friend; he promises to look into it and find out why the deal didn’t go ahead.

(“I would have loved to have you on my line,” he says, unprompted.

Zhenya would be green with envy if he heard that.)

As for the Flames, well, Sasha has friends of friends on the Flames. Or specifically, friends of Sidney’s friends.

Calls are made. Specifically, one call is made. Sidney makes the rest on Sasha’s behalf.

There is no turning back.

 

 

It’s been a little while since Jeff has invited Sasha over to watch KHL games together, but with the Gagarin Cup playoffs approaching it’s a good excuse to get back into it. It’s nice to, to follow Jeff home after practice. It hasn’t been long since they discovered what happened with Jeff’s twitter and the events of NYC, but it feels like so much has happened. It’s only when Sasha is getting settled in Jeff’s couch, Jeff strikes. Or rather, he turns down the volume a little while the American ESPN commentators attempt to provide accurate analysis (but mostly end up sounding bias) on the Russian playing style, and faces Sasha.

“Eric told me what you’re doing.”

Sasha freezes.

Jeff chews on his lip a little bit. “You took a real risk on me.”

And Sasha doesn’t understand. He feels like he’s missed part of the conversation.

“I don’t – ” Sasha starts to say.

Jeff looks at his hands. “What you did for me… it could have blown up in your face. Like, you could have messed stuff up for yourself with Kurt and Eric and Canes management.”

And – yes.

Sasha never thought of it like that, but it could have. Maybe.

“They really like you,” Jeff says, which takes Sasha aback. “Like, everyone does. Me, the guys, the fans; everyone. But like, helping me could have screwed that up.”

“I believed you,” he tells Jeff, because he did.

Jeff looks up and smiles a little. Briefly, his dimple shows. “Yeah, you did.”

Something warm and bright unfolds inside Sasha.

He likes Jeff. Maybe he even understands why Eric loves him. Maybe.

Jeff smile dims a little. “I want to help.”

“What?”

“With Tyler,” Jeff qualifies. “I want to help you with him.”

And oh.

“Oh,” Sasha exhales. He didn’t expect that.

 

 

The Bruins are having a good season. It could be better though. Most teams could say that (or would want to). Tyler is having a good season too, but not many people seem to be aware of that because it isn’t a great one. The articles written about him don’t ever seem to mention his stats, just what he is doing off the ice. It doesn’t help that his nights out are documented all over social media. Biz manages to catch a handful of pictures and videos before they become anything Tyler needs to worry about, but not all.

“I don’t think anyone could get all of them,” Biz says.

Tyler swears. “Motherfuckers.”

“Good company you’re keeping,” Biz comments.

Tyler grins a lopsided grin. “The best.”

Then he sighs.

It’s difficult to watch. It’s clear he’s trying, but nothing seems enough for the Bruins.

Somehow, the boy who could do no wrong has become the topic of conversation; a problem to be solved.

From the grape vine, Sasha heard that the Bruins have put Tyler on some kind of honour program. Apparently he has to let them know his weekly plans in advance. Half so they can approve, half so they can keep track of where he is at any given moment. One of Sasha’s contacts sent copies – it isn’t quite what Sasha meant when he asked Anton Khudobin to keep an eye out for any developments in Boston, but it’s revealing in its own way. There aren’t lines when it comes to hockey. As much as some players like to draw them to separate their professional and personal life, it doesn’t matter in the end. When it comes down to it, everything is on the table. Even, in Tyler’s case, commentary on his laundry routine from Peter Chiarelli.

It’s startlingly personal.

Sasha found that he couldn’t finish reading them. His eyes skipped over Tyler’s writing to the handwriting from the various head office personal and coaching staff, including the Bruins coach, Claude Julien. Some of the comments stuck out. Sasha’s knuckles went white when he realises who some of the anonymous team sources are. No wonder the media seems to know everything about Tyler.

When Sasha tells Tyler, he is difficult to read.

“Oh,” he breathes.

Over skype, he is as beautiful as ever. His golden skin and lashes bracken brown. Only the tape around his shoulder distracts Sasha’s eye.  Tyler is young. Lean like a colt, he is all arms and legs compared to the solid bulk of his teammates – and his opposition.

Things happen on the ice. (Things happen off the ice too.)

“It figures,” he says.

It does.

“Are you ok?” Sasha finds himself asking at the end of the call.

Tyler laughs, freely and so easily. “Always Sasha, always.”

 

 

(“Hey Sasha,” Biz says later, when it’s just the two of them.

“Yeah?”

“What do you think Segs is going to do with all the stuff we’ve found?”

Sasha opens his mouth to speak, and then he closes it.)

 

 

(They both know what Tyler is going to do.

They’ve always known.)

 

 

On the day before the Canes head off to play the Panthers, Eric and Jeff invite Sasha over for dinner.

“Bring your stuff and stay the night,” Eric says. “We can go to the airport together.”

“That way you won’t run late,” Jeff teases.

Sasha makes his face. It isn’t his fault that he sometimes ends up running late, it’s Zhenya’s. Jordan understands. He can’t hang up on Zhenya either. He’s gotten in trouble more than once for being the last to board a flight due to one of Zhenya’s rambling accounts of his day. Sometimes Sasha thinks Zhenya might do that on purpose. Although it isn’t widely known, his sense of humour runs to the sly and untoward. However Sasha’s never been without a few doubts. Zhenya’s eyes might twinkle with mirth when confronted with that accusation, but he’s remarkably good at convincing Sasha that he couldn’t possibly wish to get anyone into trouble. Sasha probably should know better, but he believes him. Most people do.

Eric rolls his eyes when Sasha tries to explain. But he doesn’t know Zhenya or any of his cat stories.

Dinner itself ends up being a family affair. But most things tend to when it comes to the Staal’s (and Cam Ward and his wife, who at this point are considered honorary Staals). Jordan and Heather walk over to Eric’s bearing wine and dessert, while Jared is staying in one of Eric’s other guest bedrooms. He’s been up and down since NYC, but Sasha hopes that this time will be the trick. It’s clear that Jeff does too. The two of them were always good friends, and as Eric and Jeff have slowly begun to repair their relationship, so has Jeff with Eric’s brothers.

They all know the truth of that happened – or most of it.

Sasha isn’t sure if the wider world will ever know. For now, it seems enough that the people closest to Jeff know. All the tension and stress Jeff carried has slowly begun to dissipate. From the deck, Sasha throws a ball for Lady to chase. Over by the grill, Sasha catches sight of Jeff burst into laughter at one of Jordan’s awful jokes. It’s a nice sight. Surrounded by people he trusts and loves, Jeff is how Sasha suspects he might have been before the scandal.

Stepping outside onto the deck, Eric hands Sasha a beer.

“I was so pissed off when I heard,” Eric says suddenly.

Sasha does have to ask what he’s referring to.

“You didn’t let it show,” he tells Eric, because he didn’t.

Eric stood by Jeff. Maybe their relationship broke down under the strain of the fallout from the twitpic, but Eric stood by Jeff when it mattered. The Canes might not have wanted Jeff in their locker room, but Eric made sure that Jeff was safe there. Safe and protected. Eric had Jeff’s back, and he made sure that the rest of the Canes had Jeff’s back as well.

“You didn’t even know him,” Eric says. “All you’d heard was the worst, but you still took him under your wing.”

Sasha awkwardly shrugs. “You would've done the same.”

“Not everyone would,” Eric counters.

Sasha doesn’t know what to say to that.

Taking a sip of his beer, he looks out into Eric’s garden. Jordan and Jared are bickering by the BBQ, while Heather and Jeff are now laughing at them. Cam and his wife Cody are due to arrive any moment. They will probably have their own opinions on how to grill their dinner and will make it increasingly likely that everything will end up burnt, even their dessert.

By his side, Eric takes another sip of his beer. “You want to know when I knew you were someone I wanted to know?”

Sasha eyes him.

Eric grins, looking a little proud of himself. “Come on, you know you want to.”

“I didn’t before you put it like that,” Sasha tells him.

He doesn’t know when Eric got to know him this well. Too well, if he is taunting Sasha a question worded like that. Sasha doesn’t think he could let it go even if he wanted to.

Eric’s expression softens. “When you volunteered to be Jeff’s partner at practice.”

Sasha makes a face. That was so long ago now.

“No one else would go near him,” Eric tells Sasha, and Sasha knows that. Jeff was a lead weight to a new player hoping to make a good reputation.

Eric smiles. “But you didn’t care.”

And that isn’t true. Sasha did care. He tries to tell Eric that – that Sasha wasn’t selfless.

Eric though, shakes his head.  “You didn’t care what people thought.”

“I did,” Sasha says. “I do.”

“But not enough to shun Jeff like anyone else would have done.”

 

 

Later, after Cam and Cody have left, and Heather has convinced Jordan that they should go back to their home rather than crash at Eric’s, Eric mutes the TV. Sitting in the den, Sasha isn’t even sure what they are watching. He’s lost track. Jeff has fallen asleep against Eric’s shoulder while Jared and Lady are both sprawled out and snoring on couch.  

“You know, you can ask me,” Eric says softly.

Sasha is a little confused.

“You can ask me, if you need help.” Eric clarifies. “I’ll always try to help if I can. You don’t have to go to Sidney.”

Eric has long worn a C on his jersey.

Maybe the medals, cup, and records cemented it, but he got it before most of them and he got it for a reason. The Canes are lucky to have him. When Sasha arrived in Raleigh, no one would have blamed Eric for being distracted, or frustrated. He could have turned a blind eye. He could have let Jeff be pushed to the outer perimeters of the team. He could have taken his frustration out on the Canes – on Sasha, the new guy on his team. He could have done a lot of things. He didn’t. Not even once.

And now? Now, when he’s offering this…

Sasha doesn’t know what to say.

He – nods.

He knows that.

Eric smiles softly.

 

 

When Sasha's alone, he doesn’t quite know how to react. Shaken and conflicted, Sasha finds himself laying in Eric’s guest bedroom unable to sleep.

Eric didn’t press Sasha for an answer then and there. He didn’t press at all, really.

Sasha isn’t sure if he can accept it. Sasha has the bit in his mouth and he doesn’t know how to stop or even if he can stop looking for an answer to what happened.

Sanja promised. Sanja said they would both be career Caps.

Sanja still isn’t answering Sasha’s calls.

Why won’t Sanja answer Sasha’s calls?

 

 

(Sasha thought he could go to Sanja for anything.

Sasha was wrong.)

 

 

_“Time to come out of the closet….”_

Sasha’s stomach drops when he checks Tyler's twitter feed and finds that tweet and a series of others. There is something very ugly and brutal about the private messages from one of Tyler's male fan being made public - along with the fans name. 

“I was hacked,” Tyler tells Sasha.

Tyler told his team and Peter Burke that too. It’s what the media is quoting him saying too. No one believes him.

Sasha remembers the slide show he endured on his first day as a Cane. It had featured Tyler and his unique brand of social media presence. He also remembers the way Jeff had been so upset being compared to Tyler. At the time Sasha hadn’t examined that. He just took it as a given. Now, as Tyler leans closer to the camera, his eyes clearly focused on it rather than the skype window itself, Sasha thinks perhaps he should have.

 

 

When it comes to Jaromir, as much as he enjoys and encourages the cult of mystic which surrounds him, at heart, he isn’t particularly difficult to get a hold of. Equally, Sasha has always found him easy to talk to.  For all that he knows Sasha perhaps better than anyone, Jaromir has never seemed to find anything damning about him. Certainty he has opinions about Sasha’s sports car purchases and the way Jaromir’s dogs are too fond of him, but that isn’t anything really.

Currently wearing the ink green uniform of the Dallas Stars, Jaromir lets Biz take him home when their teams play each other in Phoenix. From what Sasha’s apps told him and the highlights he caught on ESPN, the game wasn’t particularly close. No one would guess if they saw Jaromir. Win or lose, Jaromir navigates them both with skill few people have.

When Sasha skypes them, Biz has a somewhat stunned look on his face and Jaromir is making himself at home.

“Hey Sema,” he nods, slipping his jacket off his shoulders and over the back of Biz’s couch. “How are the Canes treating you?”

Sasha shrugs. “I can’t complain.”

That, of all things, makes Jaromir smile. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“And you?” Sasha asks.

Jaromir’s smile becomes a little fond. “No complaints either.”

Sasha’s expression to that must reveal his response to it, because Jaromir laughs.

“There are too many kids underfoot and they keep saying how they grew up watching Crosby instead of me.”

“I grew up watching you,” Sasha tells him.

Jaromir snorts. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“One of them,” Sasha admits.

Jaromir leans back in Biz’s couch and accepts the beer bottle Biz offers him. “I’m guessing that’s why you wanted to talk to me.”

In the background Biz snorts and mutters. “This is so cool.”

Sasha rolls his eyes a little.

“So,” Jaromir says after taking a sip of his beer. “Are we going to talk about Tyler or are we going to talk about you?”

Sasha freezes.

Through the skype feed, Jaromir gives him a knowing look.

“You can’t live in two places at the same time,” Jaromir tells Sasha.

His voice is gentle – he is gentle. Not many people would say that about him, but he is.

Sasha wants to look away.

“I don’t think I will get closure with the Pens – with Mario.” Jaromir says. “I miss him, even now. I miss having him in my life like he used to be.”

And Sasha knows this. He saw that in Washington.

Jaromir didn’t look at the nets, and neither did Mario Lemieux. 

They looked at each other whenever the Caps played the Pens.

(They looked at each other.)

Before Sasha’s time - before the trade that Pittsburgh will never forget – Sasha thinks they would have looked to each other.

 “I’m still standing, Sema,” Jaromir says. “So are you.”

At this Sasha can’t help but laugh. A short burst escapes his mouth, and as it does, Jaromir smirks.

“It could be worse. You could be a Star.”

Sasha gives him a look.

Jaromir’s smirk fades into something fond. “The Hurricanes are your team now – your future, if you sign the deal everyone knows they’re going to make you.”

And Sasha… he knows that.

He’s known that for a while now.

“You need to stop, you know that, right?” Jaromir says.

Sasha isn’t sure what he knows.

 

 

(Sasha isn’t sure where to go, or even if he should keep going.)

 

 

When Tyler calls a few days later, Sasha isn’t sure what he is expecting. There is fission in the air.

“I expected you would be out,” Tyler says, when Sasha answers.

“Why?”

Tyler shrugs.

Freshly showered, his hair is falling into messy waves and his cheeks are flushed. Achingly lovely, he smiles at Sasha. If Sasha didn’t know better, he would be charmed. Maybe he is nevertheless. He isn’t sure he can help it.

Earlier this week, there was a “story” doing the rounds on local Boston blogs. It alluded to one of Dougie Hamilton’s failed hook ups; it was the kind of funny and awful story that sports blogs loved.

It was a story Biz dug up. 

Sasha…

Sasha watches Tyler button up an inky blue shirt, and buckle a watch onto his slender wrist. There is a casual ease with his body and a confidence that Sasha can’t take his eyes off. Something deep inside him aches, and Sasha isn’t sure why or for whom.

 

 

Sasha knew what Tyler was going to do. He always knew.

He can’t plead ignorance.

 

 

(Sasha doesn’t want Jeff involved in this.)

 

 

Would it be so bad if Tyler was traded? Sasha doesn’t know.

Sasha… isn’t sure what he wants. Not anymore. Not after NYC. Not after talking to Jaromir. And to be honest, maybe Tyler wants insurance, but maybe what he needs is the trade he’s so afraid of.

Another team might be an unknown, but it might be what he needs.  At this point, Sasha isn’t sure the Bruins are that.

 

 

(Does he really need to know what happened with the Caps? At this point Sasha isn’t sure.

Would it be better, just this once, not to know?)

 

 

For some reason – despite the rumours and despite the certain way Eric, Jeff and Jaromir talk about Sasha’s future with the Canes, and even how Sasha knows how pleased the Canes management are with him – Sasha is taken off guard when his agent, Todd, calls to inform him that the Canes want to offer him an extension to the one year contract he signed.

“You like them, don’t you?” Todd asks.

And – and Sasha does.

He likes playing on Eric’s line, he likes being in the Canes locker room – Sasha likes being a Cane.

“Do you want to stay in Raleigh?”

Sasha does, and around the same time he gives Todd the go ahead to begin negotiations, Eric points out a house while he and Sasha are out walking Lady around his neighbourhood.

“The owner has season tickets,” Eric tells Sasha.

Looking at the green garden and the large windows, Sasha has to admit that it’s a nice home.

“It could be yours, if you want. They’re putting it on the market.”

And oh.

Turning to Eric, Sasha sees only certainty in Eric’s eyes.

“Maybe it’s time you think about putting down some roots?”

“Maybe,” Sasha echoes.

And maybe Eric is right.

He usual is.

 

 

(Without noticing, things became normal.

It happened in Washington without Sasha noticing. For all that he could sleuth out lost cats and track down the truth about who said what when Zhenya and Sanja had their ridiculous feud all those years ago, Sasha didn’t notice how he became used to being sidelined by Bruce, or how he became used to overhearing his teammates say awful things about him in public (or in private), or how alone he became.)

 

 

When Sidney calls, Sasha finds himself going quieter and quieter.

The other shoe finally drops.

It was Sanja.

“At first, Ovie fought against them trading you,” Sidney tells Sasha. “But when the Caps were faced with the cap issue, they were looking for wriggle room. Your name came up, and this time he didn’t protest.”

“That time, he suggested me,” Sasha finds himself filling in.

“I’m sorry,” Sidney says.

And it’s awful really.

Sasha remembers how one night, so many seasons ago, Sanja was sick. In his place the Caps had Sasha talk to the media. Someone asked about Sidney, and Sasha said something thoughtless. He called Sidney overrated. It’s ironic how words linger, especially ones like that.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Sidney, years late.

Sidney doesn’t understand until Sasha explains.

“I hadn’t thought of that for years,” Sidney says simply.

Sasha manages a laugh. “Too many other people have said stupid things about you since then.”

“Yeah,” Sidney agrees softly.

For a beat, Sidney is quiet.

It’s unexpected when he breaks the silence.

“You’re my friend,” Sidney tells Sasha. “I wouldn’t do all this for anyone.”

And –

And Sasha knows that. He did. He does.

He thought he knew what friendship was. He thought it was lost cats and arms slung over his shoulder and, and, and –

"You're my friend too."

 

 

(Sasha isn’t alone anymore.

He has Eric and Jeff, Biz, maybe Cam too, and he always had Jaromir, Zhenya and even Sidney too. He isn’t alone.) 

 

 

Sasha calls Sanja again. Because he thinks he knows now.

Sanja wanted Sasha to leave Washington for his own good – to go somewhere better and have a fresh start.

Sasha is happy in Raleigh – he is loved, even –  but that isn’t the point. The thing is, it wasn’t Sanja’s choice to make and Sasha isn’t sure if he can forgive Sanja for that.

 

 

(Sanja doesn’t answer.

Sasha leaves a message anyway. He hopes Sanja listens to it.)

 

 

When Tyler calls for an update, Sasha doesn’t want to lie. He doesn’t want to turn his back on Tyler. Not now, not when he has grown so fond of Tyler. However Sasha can’t go down this path with him.

Life shouldn’t be lived eye for an eye.

It can’t be lived like that – not without a cost.

“I can’t help you anymore,” he tells Tyler. “Not like you want me to.”

It feels too much like what Troy and Matt did to him. Leaking locker rooms… it’s just another term for a betrayal of trust. Maybe the Bruins are pushing Tyler out, maybe they are the anonymous sources the media are quoting. However doing what he has done to Dougie Hamilton… Sasha isn’t sure if Tyler can come back from that. He stepped over a line that a person should never step over.

Tyler sighs. There is something so painful about it.  

He is being run ragged in Boston. Sasha knows it. He can see it in Tyler’s eyes. As hard as he is trying to live up to expectations, he somehow keeps coming short. Sasha doesn’t know how to help him. Sasha isn’t sure that anyone can. He thinks, maybe, that this is something which, sooner or later, was always going to play out. And will play out, one way or another.

“How did you hear about me?” Sasha finds himself asking Tyler. He doesn’t know why, nor does he honestly expect an answer.

A slow, easy smile answers Sasha. It’s disarming, as most of Tyler’s smiles are. Lovely too.

“Word gets around,” Tyler says.

And Sasha supposes that that’s true.

 

 

(Maybe Jaromir is right. Maybe he should start looking forward instead of backwards).

 

 

There is a road trip. Another one. It’s short, but the Canes don’t get a moment’s rest. If they aren’t playing, then they are travelling to their next game. Somehow, even though the pace should exhaust him, it helps. The routine and rhythm of the Canes is comforting. For the most part, Sasha stays close with the Canes core. He listens to Cam rant about various things that are irritating him, he shakes his head at Jeff’s awful jokes, and lets Eric keep him close.

When Sasha gets back to Raleigh, he is yawning as he gets off the elevator. Tired and aching from an awkward check in the Canes last game, Sasha is taken off guard when he sees Sanja sitting outside his hotel door.

“I have a free day,” Sanja says, speaking before Sasha can find the words to say something (anything).

“Okay,” Sasha says.

He looks at Sanja. No longer shorn close to his skull, Sanja’s hair is longer and messy. Soon, he will look just like he normally does - the way Sasha remembers him. 

“I can’t stay for long,” Sanja tells Sasha. “My flight back to D.C. is in four hours.”

Sasha nods.

He shows Sanja inside his room.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” Sanja says. “You hate hotels.”

No one has put it that way before; maybe Sasha does.

“I’ve been staying with Eric recently,” Sasha tells him – comforts him. It’s an old habit. He didn’t think it was one that he still had. So much has been stripped away. 

Sanja nods. He doesn’t know Eric like Sasha does, but he does know of Eric. That’s enough for Sasha’s admission to be reassuring.

For all the months of hounding for answers, Sasha isn’t sure what to say or how to start.

It feels too big. Bigger than both of them.

“You’re my best friend too,” Sanja tells him. The words feel like hens teeth.

Sasha’s breathe catches in his throat.

Sanja looks away. He looks away and then he opens his mouth and starts talking.

And Sasha was right, because he is always right. He wishes he wasn’t. He wishes there was a big conspiracy or a huge mystery for him to untangle.  He wishes it was anything other than Sanja thinking he knew better, thinking he could protect Sasha from being bumped down to the third or forth line, thinking he could save Sasha from being berated and belittled each and every day, thinking he could save Sasha from himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says when he finishes.

Sasha isn’t sure if he is.

Sanja thought he was doing the right thing. He still thinks that – Sasha knows him too well, not to know that. He sees Sasha's success this season as proof. 

But the thing is, Sasha knows he is going to forgive Sanja. He maybe already has.

 

 

Afterwards he goes over to Eric and Jeff’s place – he wants to tell them. He wants them to know.

So much has happened, and so much has changed. Yet somehow the important things are still the same.

 

 

**Epilogue:**

 

 

Sasha is driving home when his iPhone starts ringing. Not taking his eyes off the road, he answers it and switched it on speakerphone.

For a beat there is silence. Glancing at the screen, Sasha doesn’t recognise the number. He is about to hang up when there is a scuffly sound, then –

“I heard you’re the person to call if someone needs some help.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find/follow me on [tumblr](http://www.pr-scatterbrain.tumblr.com) if you want <3


End file.
